Ctbrarjp  of  "the  theological  ^eminarp 

PRINCETON  •  NEW  JERSEY 


•a  ^Re¬ 


presented  BY 

Delevan  L.  Pierson 


DST  2. 1 
•  A  4-  (o 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


https://archive.org/details/rnychinesedays00also_0 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


A  RKI.IC  OF  ANTIQUITY 


MY 

CHINESE 

DAYS 


GUUHLMA 

F/ALSOP 

TlivsfaafeoL 
from  Photographs 


BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWNED  COMPANY 
i  yia 


Copyright,  1918, 

By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 
All  rights  reserved 


Nortooob  $rr*a 

Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  J.  S.  Cushing  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Presswork  by  S.  J.  Parkbill  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


Eo  JFatijer 


PREFACE 


Reaching  China  in  a  moment  of  great  dramatic 
importance,  in  fact  on  the  very  day  that  the  Peace 
Delegation  arrived  in  Shanghai,  in  1911,  I  found 
from  the  very  first  all  the  events  and  happenings  in 
my  daily  life  and  in  the  lives  of  those  about  me 
charged  with  a  vital  significance. 

In  the  story  of  Doctor  Wilhelmina  I  have  en¬ 
deavored  to  give  the  impressions  and  readjustments 
that  take  place  in  a  missionary  doctor  in  present- 
day  China.  Some  of  the  incidents,  in  especial  the 
rescue  of  the  slave  girls  at  Kaung  Wan,  are  bor¬ 
rowed  from  the  heroism  of  acquaintances,  but  the 
great  majority  happened  under  my  very  eyes. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I 

The  Mandarin’s  Bride  . 

. 

PAGE 

I 

II 

The  Coolie’s  Wife  . 

13 

III 

Flying  Stones  .... 

21 

IV 

The  Girl  from  Tunis 

30 

V 

Glowing  Needles 

40 

VI 

A  Romance  of  the  East  . 

51 

VII 

The  Business  of  Life 

57 

VIII 

The  Song  of  the  Coolies 

68 

IX 

The  Warm  Grave 

79 

X 

The  Slave  Refuge  at  Kaung  Wan 

92 

XI 

The  Walled  City 

109 

XII 

The  Fishing  Birds  . 

120 

XIII 

The  Brigand’s  Knife 

132 

XIV 

The  Wives  of  Li 

145 

XV 

The  House  of  the  Dead  . 

167 

XVI 

The  Sanctuary  of  the  Well  . 

185 

XVII 

Where  There’s  a  Will  !  . 

200 

XVIII 

The  Seeking  Hand  . 

226 

XIX 

The  Flaming  Wind  . 

249 

XX 

The  River  of  Silence 

258 

IX 


LIST  OF  PLATES 


A  Relic  of  Antiquity . 

Frontispiece 

The  Creek,  near  Rubicon  Road,  Shanghai  . 

FACING  PAGE  28 

At  the  Trinket  Stall . 

“  “  82 

A  Sedan  Chair  and  Bearers 

“  “  1 12 

The  Temple . 

“  “  1 16 

A  Watergate,  Sungkiang  .... 

“  “  122 

The  Temple  Courtyard.  A  Ceremonial 

“  “  I72 

The  Bird  Fanciers . 

“  “  222 

MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


i 

THE  MANDARIN’S  BRIDE 

I  HAD  been  in  Shanghai  one  week  and  was  com¬ 
fortably  settled  in  my  study  and  bedroom  but 
my  mode  of  life  was  still  strange  to  me  and  I 
was  invariably  startled  by  the  appearance  of  a  hand¬ 
some,  black-haired,  blue-gowned  man  called  “the 
boy”,  whenever  I  rang  for  a  maid.  The  “Ladies’ 
House”,  as  the  woman’s  dormitory  was  called,  was 
directly  opposite  St.  Margaret’s  Hospital,  where  I 
was  to  work  for  the  rest  of  my  appointed  lifetime. 

St.  Margaret’s  is  a  Mission  Hospital  for  Chinese 
women  and  children.  The  nurses,  too,  are  Chinese. 
In  their  uniforms  of  light  blue  trousers  and  jackets 
and  white  aprons,  I  thought  them  very  neat  and 
jaunty.  They  are  quick  and  agile,  and  move  with 
more  freedom  than  our  many-skirted  women.  None 
of  them  have  bound  feet. 

About  six  o’clock,  Doctor  Donnellon,  the  physician 
in  charge,  was  called  out  to  the  country  on  an  urgent 
case.  As  she  gathered  up  her  wraps,  she  said  to  me, 
“I  am  sorry  to  leave  you  so  soon,  but  I  hope  you 
will  have  a  quiet  night.  If  you  need  anything, 


2 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


remember  that  A-doo  is  the  best  nurse.  She  speaks 
a  little  English.  You  had  better  sleep  in  my  room 
in  order  to  hear  the  night  bell.” 

“When  will  you  be  back?”  I  asked,  following  her 
to  the  door. 

“I  can’t  say.  Some  time  to-morrow,”  she  an¬ 
swered. 

She  stepped  into  her  ricksha,  and  the  wild-haired 
coolie  burst  into  a  run  and  whisked  her  out  of  sight 
around  the  wall  of  the  compound. 

I  went  back  and  finished  my  dinner  with  the 
other  women  —  two  evangelists  and  three  teachers. 
I  felt  a  slight  tingling  in  my  veins,  as  a  swimmer 
does  on  the  brink  of  a  plunge  into  water  of  an  un- 
guessable  temperature.  The  desultory  talk  of  the 
table  flowed  around  me  unnoticed ;  I  was  wonder¬ 
ing  what  the  coming  night  would  bring  forth,  so 
much  of  the  true  physician’s  attitude  had  I  ab¬ 
sorbed  in  the  three  years  since  my  graduation. 
Everything  happens  at  night. 

The  hospital  was  quiet  when  I  made  the  rounds 
at  nine  o’clock.  The  outlines  of  the  patients  were 
mere  formless  lumps  under  their  “bi-deus”  of 
padded  cotton.  I  opened  windows  right  and  left, 
pulled  the  covers  from  the  children’s  noses,  and 
returned  to  the  house.  Overhead,  the  stars  were 
brilliant  and  brightly  opalescent.  The  upcurling 
eaves  of  the  Chinese  houses  huddling  around  the 
compound  cut  sharply  against  the  steely-blue  of 
the  sky.  The  broad  palm  leaves  clashed  softly 
against  each  other  like  cymbals. 

The  feeling  of  the  night  grew  upon  me,  as  I 


THE  MANDARIN’S  BRIDE 


3 


crouched  on  a  low  stool  over  the  fire.  One  by 
one,  the  other  women  went  to  bed.  The  Chinese 
servants  ceased  their  chatter.  From  the  street  I 
heard  the  click  of  the  watchman’s  castanets  as  he 
struck  them  together  on  his  rounds.  Once,  a  sudden 
burst  of  sound  leapt  out  upon  the  quiet  night,  like 
the  wild  upflaring  of  a  hidden  fire,  and  died  away 
in  faint  reverberations. 

The  gaudy  yellow  flames  that  had  raced  between 
the  irregular  lumps  of  shining  black  coal  changed 
to  dim,  flickering  wraiths  of  blue,  hovering  over 
crimson  embers.  I  forgot  my  anticipations  in 
dreams :  I  fancied  the  tiny,  twisting  flames  were 
the  imprisoned  ghosts  of  past  ages,  freed  by  the 
devastating  fire. 

Suddenly  the  night  bell,  a  huge,  metallic  alarm 
hung  over  Doctor  Donnellon’s  bed,  rang  sharply. 
Half  bewildered  by  its  vicious  clangor,  I  started  up 
and  threw  open  the  shutters.  The  two  night  nurses, 
in  outer  garments  of  fur,  and  five  men,  stood  on 
the  steps.  The  bright  starlight  shone  on  their 
pallid  faces  and  dark,  inscrutable  eyes. 

“What  do  you  want?”  I  called  in  Chinese. 

To  my  relief,  a  voice  answered  in  pidgin  English. 

“Come  quick.  Makee  baby.” 

“All  right,”  I  answered,  almost  disappointed 
that  nothing  more  than  an  ordinary  baby  case 
awaited  me.  I  dressed  hurriedly  and  stole  out  of 
the  sleeping  house.  The  group  on  the  steps  was 
talking  excitedly. 

Merely  as  a  formality,  I  asked,  “Is  the  woman 
in  the  hospital?” 


4 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


One  of  the  men  stepped  forward.  He  was 
promiscuously  dressed  in  a  foreign  felt  hat,  tan 
leather  shoes,  and  a  blue,  brocaded,  satin  gown  lined 
with  lamb’s  wool. 

“Woman  no  can  come,”  he  explained.  “She 
too  muchee  sick.  Two  days,  wantchee  burn  one 
baby,  no  can  burn.” 

“Burn  a  baby!”  I  cried,  with  a  start  of  horror, 
remembering  all  the  weird  tales  of  Chinese  cruelty 
I  had  heard  within  the  past  week. 

But  in  a  rapid,  voluble  mixture  of  pidgin  and 
Chinese,  the  man  explained  what  he  wanted.  My 
heart  sank,  for  I  had  no  relish  for  the  inky  black 
alleys  of  Shanghai  at  midnight. 

“More  better,  bring  woman  hospital-side,”  I 
urged. 

“No  can  do,”  the  man  retorted.  “She  too 
muchee  scare.  She  no  savvey  hospital.  You 
come.” 

He  laid  a  quick  hand  upon  my  arm  and  peered 
into  my  face.  I  liked  his  eyes  and  his  earnestness, 
and  some  of  my  fear  evaporated ;  I  had  done  my 
“out”  practice  work  in  the  polyglot  slums  of  New 
York  and  Philadelphia,  and  knew  the  night  and  its 
calls.  Yet  I  protested.  Hospital  results  are  so 
much  superior. 

“Cost  very  much  outside,”  I  answered.  “I 
charge  you  twenty-five  taels  outside.  Hospital  side, 
only  30  dong-ban  a  day.” 

“Never  mind,”  he  answered  proudly,  “Can  do. 
You  come.  Woman  already  eatee  too  muchee 
bitterness.” 


THE  MANDARIN’S  BRIDE 


5 


Turning  to  the  men  behind  him,  he  explained  our 
conversation  in  quick  idiomatic  jerks.  Each  man 
picked  up  a  corner  of  his  satin  robe  to  reach  the 
money  pocket  in  his  belt.  Between  them,  in  the 
brilliant  starlight,  they  counted  out  to  me  thirty- 
four  silver,  Mexican  dollars,  the  equivalent  of  the 
twenty-five  taels  I  had  charged. 

“Now  come,”  the  spokesman  said. 

I  acquiesced,  and  sent  for  A-doo,  the  best  nurse, 
to  accompany  me.  The  surgical  bag  with  its 
sterile  instruments,  chloroform,  and  dressings,  was 
ready.  Not  five  minutes  later  we  left  the  compound, 
A-doo  and  I  in  the  center  of  the  string  of  rickshas. 

It  was  about  one  o’clock  in  the  morning,  and  the 
ghostly  radiance  of  a  rising  moon  gave  the  pointed 
shadows  a  palpable  blackness.  In  truly  medieval 
fashion,  the  Chinese  houses  were  closely  shuttered 
and  barred.  Once  or  twice  we  passed  a  tailor’s 
shop  lit  with  smoky  oil  lamps,  where  twenty  or 
thirty  men  were  bending  at  work  over  Singer  sewing 
machines.  Out  from  the  tangle  of  Chinese  quarters 
surrounding  the  hospital,  we  burst  upon  Nanking 
Road,  a  glaring  gash  of  modernity  cutting  across  the 
shrouded,  ancient  city.  We  left  the  international 
settlement  behind  us,  ran  across  some  bare,  ill¬ 
smelling  fields  where  the  wind  nipped  the  blood, 
and  plunged  into  “  Frenchtown.”  Here  again  we 
soon  lost  ourselves  in  an  aimless  twisting  back  and 
forth  through  narrow  alleys. 

Since  leaving  St.  Margaret’s  no  one  had  spoken. 
The  two  men  before  me  bobbed  along  like  specters  in 
an  interminable  nightmare.  I  looked  back  and  saw 


6 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


A-doo’s  pale  face  and  her  kind,  intelligent  eyes.  It 
reassured  me.  I  had  reconciled  myself  to  riding  on 
for  the  rest  of  my  life,  in  a  cold  and  shivering  dark¬ 
ness,  to  I  knew  not  where,  when  we  suddenly  stopped. 
The  shafts  of  the  ricksha  were  tilted  down,  and  I  was 
precipitated  from  my  seat.  In  a  huddled  throng, 
we  moved  to  the  entrance  of  a  low  Chinese  house. 
Several  men  were  seated  in  the  room  that  opened 
from  the  street,  and  I  had  a  blurred  impression  of 
smoke-blackened  walls,  and  solemn,  sedate  faces 
pierced  with  long,  gurgling  pipes.  A-doo  and  I, 
following  the  spokesman,  mounted  the  ladder-like 
stairs,  each  step  but  as  broad  as  the  palm  of  a  man’s 
hand.  At  the  head  of  the  stairs  we  were  shown  into 
a  small  room  lit  by  one  candle.  One  bed,  four- 
posted  and  canopied,  as  are  all  the  Chinese  beds  in 
Shanghai,  occupied  most  of  the  room,  leaving  only  a 
narrow  crack  between  its  dirty  bulk  and  a  small 
shelf-like  table  against  the  wall.  There  was  no 
window,  and,  of  course,  no  water.  Three  women 
lay  on  the  bed. 

Then  began  my  initiation  into  obstetrical  work  in 
China.  A-doo  was  a  great  help.  She  divined  my 
wants  by  the  instinct  of  a  long  experience.  She 
was  the  buffer  between  me  and  the  impenetrable 
wall  of  Orientalism  around  me.  Eventually  we  were 
ready.  A-doo  gave  the  chloroform,  and  I  began  my 
work.  At  the  last  moment,  to  prevent  interruption, 
I  had  shut  and  barricaded  the  door.  In  this  small 
closet,  there  was  only  the  Chinese  woman,  her 
mother-in-law,  A-doo,  and  myself.  There  was  no 
air,  the  candle  flickered  maddeningly,  and  the  sweet 


THE  MANDARIN’S  BRIDE 


7 


insidious  fumes  of  the  chloroform  expanded  in  the 
close  atmosphere. 

It  was  a  long,  hard  case.  At  intervals,  my  con¬ 
sciousness  grew  alive  to  the  crowded,  silent,  ominous 
life  about  me.  I  recalled  an  old  hag  that  had  stared 
at  me  from  the  door  beyond ;  I  felt  acutely  the 
lives  of  the  hostile  people  of  the  house  pressing  upon 
me. 

“Suppose  the  mother  died?  What  if  the  child 
died?”  I  thought  dully. 

From  the  room  beyond,  a  low,  fitful  sound  fell 
on  my  ears,  a  sound  as  of  the  sudden  moan  of  a 
strange  wind  around  the  corners  of  a  deserted  house. 
As  I  listened,  the  sound  grew  articulate,  and  un¬ 
mistakable.  It  was  a  woman  moaning. 

My  attention  to  this  sound,  so  insidious  and 
insistent,  was  sharply  snapped  by  the  first  cry  of 
the  baby.  The  child  yelled  in  a  veritable  paroxysm 
of  rage  at  the  misfortune  of  its  sordid  birth.  As  the 
crying  of  the  infant  in  the  close  room  rose  trium¬ 
phantly,  there  was  an  utter  silence  in  the  house,  as 
if  each  inmate  had  held  his  breath  for  just  that 
sound.  The  baby  stopped  yelling  and  lapsed  into 
sobbing  breaths.  The  house  seemed  to  relax,  and 
settle  back  again  into  the  ways  and  thoughts  of 
ordinary  living.  I  imagined  that  each  of  those 
impassive  faces  took  a  long,  deep,  satisfied  pull  at 
the  poisoned  smoke  that  gurgled  up  through  long, 
bamboo-stemmed  pipes. 

Out  of  this  sudden  calm  and  relief  burst  a  wild 
shriek,  repeated  again  and  again  in  an  increasing 
agony  of  intensity. 


8 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“Oh!  My  love!  You  are  killing  me.”  The 
voice  broke  into  pitiful  sobbing. 

“Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!”  over  and  over  again  it 
moaned,  in  such  a  helpless  fury  of  petition  that  my 
blood  curdled. 

A-doo  was  already  washing  the  baby.  It  was  a 
cunning  little  thing,  a  creamy  pink  color,  with  black 
eyes  and  soft,  downy,  black  hair.  The  mother  was 
lying  insensible,  still  half  dazed  by  the  anesthetic, 
and  slumberous  with  the  relief  from  pain. 

While  I  stood  irresolute,  a  brisk  knock  came  at 
the  door,  and  an  imperious  voice  called. 

“  Is  there  a  doctor  in  there  ?” 

“Yes,”  I  answered.  “I’m  coming.” 

I  quickly  unbarred  the  door  and  opened  it.  A 
crowd  of  Chinese  men  and  women  pushed  past  me 
into  the  narrow  room,  but  I  hardly  noticed  them. 
My  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  tall,  blond  white 
man  who  faced  me,  who  started  violently  when  I 
appeared. 

“It’s  a  woman,”  he  muttered,  and  half  turned 
away. 

I  had  heard  that  remark  before  and  had  chastened 
my  spirit  to  the  acceptance  of  my  body ;  but  the 
privilege  of  helping  I  would  not  be  denied. 

“I  am  a  physician,”  I  urged.  “Do  let  me  help 
her.” 

He  turned  back  and  looked  at  me  queerly.  In 
that  moment,  as  often  before,  I  wished  I  were  tall 
and  broad  and  imposing. 

“You’re  only  a  girl,”  he  said.  “You  can’t  help.” 

By  his  expression,  I  knew  he  was  wavering.  The 


THE  MANDARIN’S  BRIDE 


9 


sound  of  renewed  moaning  in  the  next  room  decided 
me.  I  slipped  past  him  and  entered. 

In  great  contrast  to  the  squalor  I  had  left,  the 
sumptuousness  and  magnificence  of  the  apartment 
startled  me.  Pausing  a  moment  on  the  threshold, 
my  eyes  swept  the  brocaded  walls,  the  rug-strewn 
floor,  the  quaintly  carved  Chinese  furniture  of  red¬ 
wood  and  teak,  and  fastened  themselves  on  a  bed 
in  the  far  corner.  It  was  a  beautiful  bed  of  redwood, 
with  headboard  and  footboard  inlaid  with  ancient 
blue  and  white  tiles.  The  posts  were  draped  with 
crimson  curtains.  The  room  was  softly  but  bril¬ 
liantly  lit  by  innumerable  candles  stuck  on  all 
available  surfaces.  Their  sharp,  bright,  waving 
flames  gave  the  room  a  strange  significance  of  things 
unseen. 

I  crossed  swiftly  to  the  bed.  A  young  Chinese 
girl  was  sitting  on  it,  propped  up  against  crimson 
cushions.  In  health  she  must  have  been  extremely 
beautiful,  with  a  soft,  voluptuous,  creamy  beauty, 
but  now  her  face  was  blanched  with  horror,  and  her 
features  distorted  with  pain.  Her  eyes  hurt  me. 
They  looked  past  me  at  the  white,  golden-haired  man 
with  the  amazed,  bewildered  reproach  of  a  dog  that 
is  struck  by  its  master. 

Instinctively  my  fingers  closed  over  the  young 
girl’s  wrist,  while  I  scanned  her  countenance. 
From  the  corner  of  her  mouth  a  dead -white,  leprous 
streak  trailed  off  across  her  cheek.  Her  breath 
came  in  irregular  jerks  and  the  same,  low  moan 
escaped  her  lips.  Her  pulse  barely  fluttered  beneath 
my  fingers.  With  sudden  conviction,  I  leaned  close 


10 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


and  smelt  her  breath.  I  caught  a  full  whiff  of 
the  dangerous  sweetness  of  carbolic  acid. 

I  turned  upon  the  white  man  in  horror. 

“Did  you  do  this?”  I  cried. 

The  man  looked  at  me,  a  flashing,  blue  glance, 
and  on  to  the  girl  on  the  bed  without  replying. 

“She  will  die  in  horrible  agonies,”  I  exclaimed. 

“I  know,”  he  said  in  a  queer,  quiet  voice  that 
made  me  look  at  him  again  and  notice  how  young  he 
was.  “I  know,”  he  repeated,  “but  you  said  you 
would  help.” 

Looking  at  him,  my  scruples  died  within  me.  I 
knew  antidotes  were  useless;  too  much  time  had 
elapsed  since  the  swallowing  of  the  poison. 

I  ran  back  to  the  other  room  for  my  hypodermic 
case.  The  mother  was  awake.  Every  one  was 
happy  because  the  baby  was  a  boy  ;  they  beamed  on 
me. 

I  returned  to  the  girl,  and  after  giving  the  hypo¬ 
dermic  of  morphine,  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  to 
watch  its  effect.  Soon  the  pitiful  moaning  ceased, 
and  the  face  of  the  young  girl  smoothed  itself  into 
all  the  beauty  of  her  youth.  Its  soft,  oval  contour 
held  a  subtle  charm.  The  languid  flicker  of  her 
eyelids  revealed  her  luminous  dark  eyes.  She 
smiled  at  me,  and  putting  her  hand  to  her  neck, 
she  drew  off  a  finely  carved  jade  figure  hung  on  a 
thin  gold  chain. 

“Thank  you.  It  hurts  no  more,”  she  said  softly. 

Then  her  attention  lapsed  from  me  entirely. 

The  golden-haired  man  was  kneeling  by  her  bed, 
covering  her  hand  with  kisses. 


THE  MANDARIN’S  BRIDE 


ii 


“Forgive  me,  May-ling,”  he  murmured. 

With  her  last  strength,  the  girl  lifted  her  hand  to 
touch  his  pale,  gold  hair.  I  heard  her  reply.  It 
and  what  the  man  answered  have  gone  on  reverberat¬ 
ing  through  my  mind. 

“I  understand,”  she  said.  “So  we  had  arranged 
it.  Love  always  kills  something.” 

She  closed  her  eyes.  Again  in  the  crowded  house 
a  great  stillness  reigned,  not  the  stillness  of 
expectancy,  but  that  of  an  end. 

I  stood  at  the  window  and  waited,  for  what  I 
hardly  knew,  but  I  only  knew  that  I  could  not 
leave.  I  wanted  to  understand.  Outside,  a  dim 
dawn  drew  its  curtain  of  light  over  the  peaked 
roofs  of  the  city. 

The  man  began  to  speak  to  me  quietly. 

“You  are  young,”  he  said,  “perhaps  too  young  to 
understand.  Yet  I  want  to  justify  our  act  in  your 
eyes,  for  I  cannot  bear  that  any  shadow  should 
rest  upon  our  love.” 

So  far  he  had  spoken  calmly.  Now  he  hurried 
on  as  if  fearful  of  being  stopped  by  a  growing  excite¬ 
ment. 

“I  met  her  in  the  interior,  up  river,  in  the  hills. 
She  was  married  at  twelve  to  a  wealthy  Mandarin, 
who  sent  her  to  England  to  a  boarding  school  for 
four  years.  There  the  soul  that  has  slept  for 
centuries  in  the  Chinese  race  was  wakened  and  fed. 
The  future  spread  itself  out  for  May-ling,  as  for 
any  other  maiden,  filled  with  dreams  of  a  prince 
and  a  great  love.  Then  the  Mandarin,  her  husband, 
brought  her  back  and  shut  her  up  in  his  yamen.” 


12 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


I  suppose  I  was  looking  at  him  stupidly,  for  he 
suddenly  exclaimed  vehemently. 

“She  felt  it  as  you  would  feel  it —  the  stifling  of 
her  brain,  the  turning  back  of  her  soul,  the  slavish 
ownership  of  her  body.  Then  we  met.  Oh !  I 
know  how  unusual  it  is !  But  her  husband  was  so 
proud  of  her  foreign  learning  and  English  ways  that 
she  was  allowed  to  come  to  a  small  dinner.  One 
week  later  we  escaped  together.  We  crept  down 
the  Yangtse  in  a  common,  brown-sailed  junk,  and 
we  laughed  when  we  saw  the  swift  launch  of  the 
Mandarin  steam  past  us.  We  were  happy,  as  you 
have  no  conception  of  happiness.” 

The  man  paused  and  almost  stopped. 

“Oh,  it  doesn’t  matter  how  it  happened,”  he 
continued.  “  Last  night  the  Mandarin  found  us.  I 
promised  May-ling  she  should  never  fall  into  his 
hands  alive.” 

He  drew  himself  up  regally  beside  the  bed  on  which 
the  lifeless  girl  lay.  A  half  smiling  tenderness  was 
on  his  face. 

“Love  is  the  great  adventure,”  he  said  softly. 

A-doo  came  for  me  and  we  started  back  to  the 
hospital,  in  my  hands  the  carved  jade  talisman,  the 
bringer  of  love  and  death,  and  in  my  heart  the 
memory  of  his  words  echoing  : 

“Love  is  the  great  adventure!” 


THE  COOLIE’S  WIFE 


FOR  a  long  time  I  could  not  tell  the  nurses 
apart.  Each  one  seemed  a  black-haired, 
blue-gowned  counterpart  of  the  next,  but 
after  the  night  the  Mandarin’s  bride  died,  I  knew 
A-doo.  Gradually,  one  by  one,  faces  grew  signifi¬ 
cant  ;  May-li,  with  a  round,  smiling  countenance ; 
San-mae,  taller  and  usually  worried  :  Tsung-pau,  of 
the  agile  legs :  and  lastly,  Ah-tsi.  The  first  day 
that  I  taught  the  English  class  I  noticed  her.  She 
was  tall  and  slender,  with  a  straight-boned  nose  and 
pale,  clearly  marked  lips.  The  nurses  all  wore  the 
regular  hat  of  Chinese  women,  a  band  of  black  satin 
or  brocade,  narrow  across  the  forehead  and  curved 
out  to  cover  the  ears.  With  this  hat,  the  pale  oval 
of  Ah-tsi’s  face  was  sharply  outlined.  She  wore 
earrings,  two  loops  of  irregular  pearls  set  in  deep 
blue  enamel.  In  class,  and  even  at  her  work,  she 
was  inattentive  and  distrait,  yet  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  scold  her  because  of  an  inexplicable  quality 
in  her  smile. 

One  evening  after  I  had  made  rounds,  I  went  as 
usual  to  inspect  the  nurses’  quarters  and  count 
heads  for  the  night.  At  once  I  noticed  an  air  of 


14 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


subdued  excitement.  Ah-tsi  was  missing.  I  went 
to  A-doo  about  it. 

“ Do  you  know  where  Ah-tsi  has  gone ?”  I  asked. 

A-doo  shook  her  head  in  scared  silence. 

Tsung-pau  volunteered  in  her  quick,  broken  Eng¬ 
lish  :  “Evening  rice  time,  go  out.  Blue  satin, 
trousers  wear.” 

“Was  she  alone?”  I  probed. 

“Go  alonee.  Maybe,  by-um-bly  meet  he,”  Tsung- 
pau  answered. 

F urther  than  that  I  could  elicit  no  information.  The 
nurses,  in  their  blue  trousers  and  jackets,  looked  like 
young  boys  excited  over  a  secret  plot.  I  left  word  that 
Ah-tsi  should  report  to  me  as  soon  as  she  returned. 

I  walked  back  slowly  to  the  house.  Each  night 
in  the  short  walk  from  the  hospital,  I  felt  plunged 
anew  into  the  midst  of  China.  The  fantastic,  up- 
curling  eaves  of  the  crowded  houses  that  shut  in  our 
compound  like  a  wall  always  reminded  me  that  I  was 
in  the  midst  of  an  alien  race  that  lived  by  traditions, 
trailed  down  the  years  from  antiquity.  That  even¬ 
ing  I  paid  no  attention  to  the  menacing  rows  of 
Chinese  houses,  as  my  thoughts  were  occupied  with 
Ah-tsi.  There  were  no  stars.  The  night  was  black 
and  shrouded  with  fog. 

“Everything  quiet?”  asked  Doctor  Donnellon,  as 
I  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  fire. 

“Ah-tsi  is  out,”  I  answered  laconically. 

“That  accounts  for  Kwung-ling’s  behavior,” 
Doctor  Donnellon  exclaimed. 

Kwung-ling  is  the  upstairs  boy  who  carries  the 
bath  water,  and  scrubs  the  floors  and  makes  the 


THE  COOLIE’S  WIFE 


i5 


fires.  He  is  cross-eyed  and  timid  ;  moreover,  he  is 
the  husband  of  Ah-tsi. 

"What  has  he  been  doing?”  I  asked. 

"It’s  not  what  he  has  done,  but  what  he  has  left 
undone,”  Doctor  Donnellon  replied.  "  Not  a  bucket 
of  bath  water  has  he  carried  up.  I’ve  rung  for  him, 
but  he  is  not  on  the  premises.  Mio-kung  (the  head 
boy)  says  he  left  at  seven  o’clock.” 

"Ah-tsi  left  at  five,”  I  said.  "Perhaps  he  went 
after  her.  I  wonder  what’s  up!” 

1  "  A-doo,  in  a  moment  of  expansiveness,  said  Ah-tsi 

had  a  lover,”  answered  Doctor  Donnellon.  "  He  is  a 
man  from  her  own  village,  Wusih,  whom  she  knew 
before  she  married  Kwung-ling.” 

"I  thought  such  things  didn’t  happen  in  China!” 
I  cried  in  amazement. 

•  "Everything  happens  in  China,  especially  in 
Shanghai,  where  the  East  and  West  have  met,” 
replied  Doctor  Donnellon. 

She  picked  up  the  poker  and  began  to  thrust 
ruminatively  at  the  bed  of  coals. 

"Since  the  Revolution,”  she  continued,  "danger 
to  women  runs  like  wildfire.  The  old  restraints  are 
gone,  and  no  barricade  of  character  has  been  built 
up  behind  the  demolished  strongholds.  The  women 
of  the  coolie  class  have  always  had  more  or  less 
freedom.” 

,  "It’s  a  real  love  story!”  I  exclaimed,  with  a 
prospective  old-maid’s  interest.  "Ah-tsi  seems  far 
above  Kwung-ling.  He  is  such  a  timid,  shrinking 
sort  of  a  man  that  I  don’t  wonder  she  doesn’t, Jove 
him.”-' 


i6 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


Doctor  Donnellon  looked  at  me  queerly.  An 
intense  melancholy  lay  in  her  expression. 

“Love,  as  we  know  it,  probably  doesn’t  enter 
into  consideration,”  she  said  slowly.  “Ah-tsi  is 
tempted  away  by  the  mere  physical  attraction  of 
the  bigger  man.” 

“Oh!  You’ve  seen  him,  have  you?”  I  asked 
eagerly. 

“Yes,  several  times,”  Doctor  Donnellon  replied. 
“He  is  the  Raymonds’  cook.” 

I  easily  recalled  the  man  —  tall,  imposing,  arrayed 
in  a  long  cut- velvet  garment,  still  arrogantly  swinging 
a  thick  queue  to  his  knees.  Mentally,  I  placed  the 
two  men  side  by  side,  and  I  wondered  when  bodily 
qualities  would  cease  to  be  supreme. 

“One  of  the  patients  in  the  prisoner’s  ward  escaped 
this  afternoon,”  said  Doctor  Donnellon.  “An  old 
woman,  about  sixty,  wrapped  herself  in  her  cotton- 
padded  quilt  and  dropped  from  the  second-story 
window.  I  found  the  comfort  folded  neatly  by 
the  steps.  The  gatekeeper  was  having  one  of  his 
periodical  naps,  I  suppose,  when  she  went  by.” 

“How  did  she  dare!”  I  exclaimed.  “She  was  a 
miserable  old  hag,  and  would  have  been  much  better 
off  in  the  hospital.” 

“You’ve  not  learnt  the  value  of  freedom,”  Doctor 
Donnellon  said. 

I  stole  a  glance  at  her  face.  I  wondered  why 
every  one  seemed  to  think  I  knew  nothing  of  life, 
or  love,  or  freedom.  I  wasn’t  so  young,  after  all. 
In  fact,  a  week  ago  I  had  passed  my  twenty-seventh 
birthday. 


THE  COOLIE’S  WIFE 


17 


As  if  she  were  able  to  read  my  thoughts,  Doctor 
Donnellon  said:  “Having  heard  about  facts  isn’t 
knowing  them.” 

Miss  Reilley  burst  in  with  barely  a  knock. 

“Oh  !  Doctor  Wilhelmina  !”  she  exclaimed,  “Miss 
Carter  has  such  a  bad  headache.  She  asked  me  to 
see  if  you  would  make  her  an  eggnog.” 

“Certainly,”  I  said,  rising.  “I’m  sorry  she  has 
another  of  her  attacks.” 

To  reach  the  kitchen  and  the  servants’  quarters,  I 
had  to  cross  an  unroofed  alley  which  divided  them 
from  the  house.  The  fog  had  grown  denser  and 
touched  my  cheeks  like  unseen  fingers.  The  night 
was  made  for  tragedy,  but  in  the  kitchen  all  was 
cheerful  and  lively.  The  four  regular  menservants, 
plus  two  “makee  learns”,  the  ricksha  coolies,  and 
three  or  four  relatives  were  seated  close  together 
around  an  eating  table,  busily  engaged  in  shoveling 
rice  into  their  mouths.  Their  method  of  eating 
fascinated  me.  Each  man  held  his  bowl  at  his  lips, 
as  we  would  a  cup  of  tea,  opened  his  mouth  to  the 
fullest  capacity,  and,  with  a  pair  of  chopsticks, 
deftly  poked  in  as  much  as  his  mouth  would  hold. 
Between  each  mouthful,  the  men  put  down  their 
bowls  and  conversed. 

As  I  stood  watching  the  scene,  Kwung-ling  entered 
by  the  opposite  door  and  sat  down  with  the  other 
men.  I  looked  at  him  with  a  newly  awakened 
interest,  trying  to  make  his  proportions  fit  those  of 
a  hero  of  the  play.  Between  his  gulps  of  rice,  he 
glanced  over  his  shoulder  from  time  to  time,  towards 
the  door  by  which  he  had  entered.  Before  I  had 


i8 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


time  to  move,  a  figure  emerged  from  the  darkness 
beyond  the  doorway  and  jauntily  strutted  into  the 
room. 

I  recognized  the  Raymonds’  cook.  He  began  to 
speak  in  a  torrent  of  sibilant  words,  parading  about 
and  swinging  his  limber  pigtail  from  side  to  side.  His 
arrival  was  greeted  with  utter  silence.  Mio-kung 
pulled  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth  in  a  contemp¬ 
tuous  smile  and  went  on  shoveling  in  rice  by  the 
bowlful. 

No  one  had  noticed  me.  I  was  in  the  shadow  of 
the  doorway.  Looking  up  quickly,  I  caught  sight 
of  a  woman’s  figure  hovering  outside. 

In  a  flash  the  pretty,  trivial  scene  was  rent  by  the 
lightning  of  tragedy.  Without  any  warning,  Kwung- 
ling  whirled  upon  his  stool,  caught  up  the  carving 
knife,  and  cut  his  rival’s  throat.  He  wiped  the 
blade  off  on  a  flap  of  his  long  coat,  and  sat  down  again 
at  the  table  to  finish  his  rice.  His  face  showed  no 
sign  of  emotion  or  excitement,  merely  a  slight 
satisfaction. 

The  other  servants  leaped  up,  chattering  in  a  shrill 
tumult.  Only  Kwung-ling  remained  at  the  table, 
complacently  eating  his  rice.  I  sprang  forward  in 
a  vain  endeavor  to  staunch  the  spurting  blood. 

“Quick!  Call  Doctor  Donnellon,”  I  cried  to 
Mio-kung. 

He  hurried  away.  The  other  men  were  jabbering 
and  gesticulating  frantically.  The-  man’s  blood 
gushed  over  my  futile  fingers  in  warm  splashes. 

Out  of  the  darkness  beyond  the  door  emerged 
the  slim  figure  of  Ah-tsi,  dressed  in  pale-blue  bro- 


THE  COOLIE’S  WIFE 


19 


caded  trousers  and  jacket  to  match.  Her  high 
standing  collar  was  edged  with  soft  white  fur  that 
lay  against  her  creamy  cheeks.  Her  delicate  oval 
face  was  slightly  tinged  with  pink.  She  walked  in 
quickly,  with  a  determined  air,  entirely  mistress  of 
herself.  Casting  one  scornful  glance  at  the  fallen, 
gory  man  prone  upon  the  floor,  she  walked  up  to 
Kwung-ling  and  touched  his  arm.  At  her  touch,  the 
man  was  electrified.  He  caught  her  hand,  and 
together  they  ran  out  of  the  room.  We  never  saw 
either  of  them  again. 

All  of  our  efforts  to  save  the  murdered  man  were 
useless.  He  bled  to  death  in  five  minutes.  Kwung- 
ling  had  severed  neatly  and  completely  both  carotid 
arteries,  and  hacked  open  the  windpipe. 

Doctor  Donnellon  telephoned  the  police  court,  and 
that  was  the  end  of  the  affair.  The  next  morning  a 
new  coolie  appeared  with  the  bath  water.  Doctor 
Donnellon  seemed  quite  undisturbed. 

“Don’t  you  feel  shivery  about  all  those  men  in  the 
kitchen  since  last  night’s  murder?”  I  could  not 
forbear  asking  her. 

“  No,”  she  said.  “  No  Chinese  servant,  or,  for  that 
matter,  no  Chinese,  would  hurt  a  foreigner  in  the 
settlement.” 

“What  will  happen  to  Ah-tsi?”  I  asked  with 
curiosity. 

“Kwung-ling  will  either  kill  her  or  forgive  her,” 
Doctor  Donnellon  answered. 

“Forgive  her!”  I  repeated,  mystified. 

“Why  not?”  replied  Doctor  Donnellon.  “His 
rival  is  dead,  his  supremacy  reasserted.”  . 


20 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“But  what  of  the  woman’s  feelings?”  I  insisted. 

Doctor  Donnellon  glanced  at  me  and  then  away, 
out  of  the  window,  to  the  irregular  piece  of  blue  sky 
cut  by  the  up-curling  eaves  of  the  Chinese  houses. 

“Ah-tsi  is  probably  satisfied,”  she  answered. 

“And  you  mean  that  this  is  the  end  of  the  whole 
affair?”  I  exclaimed.  “Aren’t  you  going  to  do  any¬ 
thing?” 

“Oh !  You  are  young,”  smiled  Doctor  Donnellon. 
“In  a  four-year  medical  course  you  ought  to  have 
learned  more  philosophy  than  to  be  upset  over  a 
murder  and  a  betrayal.  I  have  more  faith  in  the 
body’s  power  to  resist  microbes  than  in  the  soul’s 
to  withstand  temptation.” 

Doctor  Donnellon  got  up  and  left  the  room. 
From  the  window,  I  saw  her  cross  the  compound 
^nd  enter  the  hospital.  I  couldn’t  help  wondering 
at  her  impassivity  under  this  tragedy.  She  was 
neither  agitated  nor  shocked,  nor  yet  harshly 
critical  of  any  of  the  trio.  In  my  hot-headed 
youth,  I  felt  the  need  of  taking  sides,  of  punishing 
the  wrongdoers,  and  rewarding  the  righteous.  In 
this  case,  all  three,  —  Ah-tsi,  Kwung-ling,  and  the 
handsome  cook,  —  seemed  equally  sinners. 

Suddenly,  with  a  shock  of  surprise,  I  grasped  the 
meaning  of  Doctor  Donnellon’s  attitude.  To  her 
and  to  the  Chinese,  this  tragedy  was  just  ordinary 
living,  and  as  such  to  be  accepted,  not  criticized, 
the  offenders  to  be  helped,  not  punished. 

Ah-tsi’s  face,  with  its  soft  beauty,  came  to  my 
mind,  and  her  lustrous  brown  eyes  questioned  me : 

“Who  are  you  that  condemns?” 


Ill 


FLYING  STONES 


YOU  will  have  to  go  alone,  Doctor  Wilhel- 
mina,”  said  Doctor  Donnellon.  “A  walk 
will  do  you  good.  I  am  too  tired  to  come. 
Besides,  I  am  expecting  to  be  called  out  on  that  Sey¬ 
mour  Road  case  at  any  moment.” 

“I  am  sorry  you  can’t  come,”  I  replied.  “ I  hope 
you  will  have  time  for  a  little  rest  before  you  are 
called.  Good-by.” 

Wild  horses  could  not  have  kept  me  indoors  that 
afternoon.  We  had  had  a  week  of  fine  weather  that 
had  brought  out  all  the  early  fruit  blossoms.  In 
the  gardens  the  plums  and  cherries  were  huge  bou¬ 
quets  of  pink  and  white  fragrance.  I  walked 
quickly  along  Hart  Road,  turned  to  the  right,  and 
struck  out  across  the  country.  The  fields,  that  a 
month  ago  had  been  barren  and  brown,  were  now 
a  vivid  green.  Through  the  interlacing  branches  of 
the  leafless  trees,  blue  sky  and  floating  white  cloud 
puffs  chased  each  other.  A  string  of  laden  wheel¬ 
barrows,  holding  eight  or  nine  women  apiece,  hands 
from  the  silk  mills,  passed  me.  Otherwise  the  road 
was  empty. 

At  Christmas  Doctor  Donnellon  had  given  me  a 
light,  walnut-stained,  bamboo  cane.  I  was  very 


22 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


fond  of  it  and  always  carried  it  on  my  solitary  walks, 
To-day  I  swung  it  back  and  forth  jauntily,  quite 
contented  with  my  lot  as  a  missionary  doctor  in 
China.  In  spite  of  their  dirt  and  in  spite  of  their 
language,  I  liked  the  Chinese. 

In  half  an  hour  I  came  to  Soochow  Creek  and 
crossed  it  into  the  Chapei  Native  district.  At  first 
I  did  not  realize  that  I  was  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
International  Concession,  though  I  was  astounded  at 
the  squalor  and  poverty  of  the  huts  that  bordered 
the  road.  They  were  merely  low,  square  rooms, 
made  of  pieces  of  matting  sewn  together,  entirely 
without  windows  or  doors.  If  any  one  wished  to 
enter,  he  pushed  aside  a  loose  mat  and  squirmed 
in.  The  children  playing  about  were  covered  with 
scabs  and  ulcers,  and  the  dogs  were  piebald  with 
mange.  I  would  have  turned  back  but  that  in  the 
distance  I  saw  the  graceful,  peaked  roofs  of  a 
pagoda. 

A  little  urchin  ran  after  me,  grinning  and  calling 
“Nga-kok  nyung”  (foreign  kingdom  man),  “Nga- 
kok  nyung.”  As  my  custom  was  in  the  settlement, 
where  all  are  friendly,  I  turned  and  smiled  and  waved 
my  hand.  This  proceeding  scared  him  half  out  of 
his  wits.  Screaming  with  fright,  the  child  threw 
himself  on  the  ground  and  pounded  the  earth  with 
his  hands  and  feet.  Immediately  a  crowd  collected 
about  him,  some  soothing  the  child,  some  scowling 
at  me.  At  his  cry  I  had  stopped  to  see  if  he  were 
hurt,  but  finding  that  I  was  the  cause  of  the  trouble, 
I  turned  away  and  walked  on.  In  a  few  moments  I 
dismissed  the  matter  from  my  thoughts. 


FLYING  STONES 


2  3 


The  brilliant  sun  made  the  brass-tipped  eaves 
of  the  pagoda  glitter  like  jewels. 

I  was  walking  forward  eagerly  when  I  heard  the 
sound  of  running  footsteps  behind.  Perhaps  if  I 
had  not  turned  to  look  back  it  might  have  been  all 
right,  but  instinctively  I  stopped  and  looked  over 
my  shoulder.  I  saw  a  handful  of  big  boys  and  one 
yapping  cur  running  along  the  road  towards  me. 
As  I  paused,  a  sudden  shower  of  small  stones  fell 
about  me.  One  hit  my  shoulder,  and  a  faint 
stain  of  blood  dyed  my  thin  waist. 

At  the  touch  of  that  hostile  missile,  a  wild  wrath 
boiled  up  within  me.  Missionaries  are  supposed  to 
feel  only  righteous  wrath.  I  am  not  sure  about  the 
adjective  that  should  qualify  my  feeling,  but  the 
feeling  itself  I  recognized.  Very  often  I  realize 
that  I  am  not  fit  to  be  a  missionary,  and  in  such 
moments  of  humility  I  try  to  console  myself  with  the 
shortcomings  of  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob.  At 
that  moment  however  I  didn’t  stop  to  justify  myself. 
I  turned  around  and  shook  my  cane  at  that  group 
with  an  air  of  fiendish  vindictiveness. 

They  wheeled  precipitously.  The  hindermost  boy 
tripped  over  the  dog,  and  the  rest  tumbled  upon  him. 
I  couldn’t  help  laughing,  they  were  so  easily  dismayed. 

Again  I  set  my  eyes  on  the  gleaming  brass  peaks 
of  the  pagoda  and  walked  on.  The  sun  was  almost 
setting.  As  the  Chinese  say,  “The  sun  falls  down 
the  hill  of  heaven.”  Long  level  rays  shot  over  the 
flat  earth  and  covered  the  mud  huts  and  green  fields 
with  a  veil  of  woven,  golden  gauze.  A  faint  mist 
began  to  rise  from  the  ground. 


24 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


A  second  stone  hit  me  full  on  the  ankle.  It  stung 
like  fury.  Turning,  I  found  that  the  number  of 
my  pursuers  had  doubled,  and  a  few  men  hung  on  the 
fringe  of  the  group.  More  stones  fell  about  me, 
several  hitting  my  head  and  shoulders.  Shouting 
and  beating  the  air  with  my  trusty  bamboo  cane,  I 
advanced  towards  my  persecutors.  Again,  with 
delighted  shrieks,  they  fled,  and  once  more  I  set  out 
for  the  sunlit  pagoda. 

But  my  heart  wasn’t  in  it.  I  didn’t  care  whether 
the  brass  gleamed  like  gold  and  the  eaves  slanted 
upwards.  I  didn’t  think  that  trailing  pink  clouds 
made  a  wonderful  background  for  the  century-old 
wood  of  the  roof.  I  tensed  all  my  faculties  in  the 
one  act  of  listening.  I  tried  to  count  the  number  of 
bare,  padding  feet  scurrying  after  me.  Was  it 
six  or  twenty  or  one  hundred?  Now  and  again 
came  harsh,  taunting  cries  and  the  crisp  chatter 
of  flying,  falling  stones.  They  concentrated  their 
efforts  on  my  ankles. 

How  I  longed  for  a  Sikh  policeman  in  his  handsome 
blue  uniform  and  crimson  turban  !  I  could  have 
embraced  him !  In  fact,  I  would  have  embraced 
any  foreigner  whatsoever,  even  any  respectable 
Chinaman  ! 

I  reflected  on  the  number  of  missionaries  stoned 
and  burned  yearly.  Also  I  remembered  that  the 
Republic  was  but  one  year  old  and  anti-foreign 
feeling  still  in  existence.  Fit,  or  not  fit,  I  seemed 
to  be  chosen  for  a  martyr’s  death.  T  wondered  how 
St.  Stephen  felt !  I  was  mortally  afraid. 

I  began  to  run.  I  set  my  eyes  on  that  gleaming 


FLYING  STONES 


25 


pagoda  and  ran  for  dear  life,  at  first  easily  and  swiftly. 
The  pagoda  came  nearer  by  leaps  and  bounds.  As 
my  tormentors  chased  me,  the  flying  stones  ceased. 
Suddenly  I  found  my  knees  were  trembling.  My 
throat  was  dry,  and  my  breath  came  in  great  gasps. 
A  cloud  floated  between  the  pagoda  and  my  straining 
eyes. 

I  stopped  dead  and  faced  about.  Because  of 
the  pounding  of  the  pulses  in  my  ears,  I  could  not 
hear  the  approach  of  the  rabble,  but  through  my 
tears  I  saw  them  magnified  into  the  huge  black  hulk 
of  an  antediluvian  monster.  With  the  certainty 
of  doom,  my  senses  cleared,  and  I  grew  quite  calm. 

Ahead  of  the  nondescript  horde  ran  a  lithe  youth 
about  sixteen  years  old.  Poised  in  his  upraised 
arm  I  saw  a  large  round  stone.  His  still  uncut 
queue  flapped  behind  him. 

I  did  the  only  thing  that  remained  to  be  done.  I 
ran  to  meet  him  and  broke  my  futile,  vainglorious 
cane  over  his  shoulder.  Then  my  hands  fell  to  my 
sides,  and  I  awaited  the  next  assault. 

It  never  came.  The  boy,  at  the  snapping  of  my 
cane,  laughed  shrilly  but  broke  off  in  mid-air.  With 
terrified  eyes  he  stared  over  my  shoulder,  then 
began  to  back  off  towards  his  companions.  The 
group  behind  him  halted,  then  turned  and  fled. 
The  cur  howled  dismally.  The  boy  gave  a  shriek, 
whirled  around,  and  raced  after  his  comrades.  The 
large  round  stone  dropped  unheeded  to  the  earth. 

I  stood  petrified.  Aid  had  come,  as  it  always  does, 
at  the  last,  unhoped-for  moment.  Who  or  how  or 
what,  I  did  not  know,  nor  did  it  matter.  I  had 


26 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


been  saved.  I  felt  the  Lord  had  sent  His  Angels 
to  beat  the  air  with  their  unseen  wings  and  strike 
terror  into  the  hearts  of  the  heathen.  My  knees 
began  to  shake,  and  I  found  it  advisable  to  sit 
down  by  the  roadside. 

"Are  you  hurt?”  a  man’s  voice  behind  me  asked. 

"No,”  I  gasped.  With  the  assurance  of  safety 
and  protection  I  began  to  cry.  I  don’t  at  all  re¬ 
member  what  the  man  said  or  did,  but  eventually  I 
found  myself  stuttering  out  the  details  of  what  had 
happened. 

"  I  don’t  know  how  to  thank  you,”  I  ended  tritely. 

"Never  mind  that,”  he  answered.  "Do  you 
still  want  to  see  the  pagoda?” 

His  question  took  my  breath  away.  In  my  heart 
of  hearts  I  considered  myself  quite  unfit  to  walk, 
or  take  an  interest  in  anything  less  spiritual  than 
my  saved  life.  He  treated  my  escape  in  a  very  off¬ 
hand  fashion.  Well,  if  he  wanted  to,  so  could  I. 

"Certainly,”  I  answered  in  my  most  sprightly 
manner.  "If  it  isn’t  too  late.” 

"Not  at  all,”  my  rescuer  replied.  "The  sunset 
view  is  especially  fine  from  the  top  gallery.  The 
custodian  is  a  friend  of  mine.  Shall  I  help  you  up  ?” 

"I  am  entirely  recovered,  thank  you,”  I  said. 

Unaided  I  rose  to  my  feet  and  once  again  set  out 
towards  the  pagoda.  I  furtively  dabbed  my  eyes 
and  looked  at  the  man  beside  me  as  often  as  I 
could  without  being  observed.  I  saw  his  feet  very 
plainly,  neat,  trim  feet,  shod  in  very  stubby-toed 
American  shoes.  I  also  managed  to  see  his  ears. 
They  were  not  red ;  I  was  distinctly  glad  of  that. 


FLYING  STONES 


27 


“How  did  you  make  the  Chinamen  turn  tail  so 
suddenly?”  I  asked. 

“This  way,”  he  replied,  slipping  his  hand  into 
his  hip  pocket  and  drawing  out  a  small  shining 
pistol.  “  I  merely  pointed  it  at  them.  It  was 
sufficient.” 

“I  can’t  begin  to  thank  you,”  I  stammered  again. 

“Don’t  begin,  for  heaven’s  sake,”  he  protested 
with  a  sound  of  merriment  in  his  voice.  “If  I  had 
not  happened  to  come  along,  some  one  else  would 
have.  You  acted  as  if  you  shared  my  philosophy. 
Help  always  does  turn  up  at  the  last,  despaired-of 
moment.” 

“It’s  unpleasant,  waiting  for  that  last  moment,” 
I  answered.  “I  expected  to  be  stoned  to  death.” 

“I  thought  you  would  be,”  the  man  replied 
soberly.  “  I  saw  you  from  the  pagoda.  When  you 
began  to  run,  I  was  terrified.  You  faced  them 
splendidly  at  the  end.  You  must  have  hit  that 
fellow  a  pretty  strong  crack  to  break  your  cane  at 
the  first  stroke.” 

I  began  to  laugh.  “  It  was  bamboo,”  I  explained. 
He  laughed  aloud  in  amusement. 

We  soon  reached  the  gate  of  the  enclosure  sur¬ 
rounding  the  pagoda.  It  opened  to  the  push.  A 
fat,  sleek  Chinaman  rose  from  a  bench  before  the 
gate  house  and  came  towards  us.  My  companion 
left  me  to  speak  to  him.  After  a  brief  conversation 
he  returned  and  led  the  way  up  flights  of  ex¬ 
tremely  steep  stairs.  We  emerged  on  the  narrow 
gallery  that  was  overhung  by  the  topmost  roof.  A 
very  low  parapet  of  painted  tiles  ran  along  the  edge, 


28 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


and  my  companion  and  I  leaned  back  against  the 
inner  wall  and  let  our  eyes  sweep  over  the  view 
before  us.  At  the  left  lay  Shanghai,  with  its  foreign 
buildings  and  chimneys  rising  like  spars  above  the 
floating,  sealike  mist  that  thickly  covered  the  whole 
plain.  The  waves  of  the  fog  heaved  and  billowed, 
and  were  opalescent  with  sunlight. 

“A  beautiful  sight,”  said  the  stranger,  “but 
deadly.  Have  you  taken  any  quinine?” 

I  smiled  at  the  question.  “I  am  a  doctor,”  I 
replied. 

He  started.  “You,  a  doctor  !”  he  exclaimed.  “  I 
can’t  believe  it!” 

“Why  not,”  I  retorted  with  some  heat. 

My  fitness  for  medicine  was  a  sore  point  with  me. 
I  boasted  a  purple  seal  from  the  New  York  Regents, 
one  of  the  five  awarded  that  spring  among  five 
thousand  students. 

“I  suppose  I  am  too  small !”  I  flung  at  him. 

“Perhaps,”  he  answered  vaguely,  adding,  “I 
only  wonder  you  have  had  the  leisure,”  making  his 
meaning  quite  obvious  by  a  quick  glance  from  his 
eyes. 

“I  don’t  like  men  in  general,”  I  answered  his 
glance,  “nor  any  one  in  particular,”  I  hastened  to 
add. 

He  smiled  as  though  suddenly  pleased  at  some¬ 
thing. 

“Nor  I  women  in  general,”  he  replied.  “Only 
one  thing  draws  me  —  life,  in  all  its  wide,  strange 
forms.  For  about  five  years  now  I’ve  been  traveling 
and  watching.  But,  in  my  search,  I  have  never 


THE  CREEK,  NEAR  RUBICON  ROAD,  SHANGHAI 


FLYING  STONES 


29 


included  sampling  the  sweets.  One  soul  attracts 
another  by  infallible  sympathies.  I  have  waited 
for  that.” 

His  eyes  were  upon  me  with  an  intentness  of 
glance  that  held  me  silent.  He  was  leaning  against 
the  low  parapet  to  face  me.  The  sun  lit  up  one 
side  of  his  face  and  hair  with  a  clear  light. 

“About  a  month  ago,”  he  continued,  “  I  was  in  the 
Temple  of  the  Red-lipped  Idols  in  the  Native  City. 
The  air  was  dim  and  fragrant  with  rising  incense.  I 
was  staring  overhead  at  the  huge,  carven  monsters, 
then  at  the  floor,  at  the  kowtowing  Chinese. 
Suddenly,  through  the  fragrant,  floating  incense,  I 
met  a  pair  of  eyes,  —  soft,  intense,  brown  eyes,  — 
that  looked  directly  into  mine.  They  were  your 
eyes.  Do  you  remember?” 

I  nodded  and  stretched  out  my  hands  towards 
him.  For  half  a  minute  we  faced  each  other  with 
clasped  hands,  then,  for  fear  of  what  he  might  say 
next,  I  quickly  ran  down  the  stairs.  At  the  gate  an 
open  victoria  was  waiting  for  us.  The  drive  home 
passed  like  a  mirage.  I  scarcely  noticed  the  huts 
of  flapping  mats  and  the  mangy  children.  At  the 
steps  of  “The  Ladies  House”  I  hesitated  a  moment. 
The  stranger,  hat  in  hand,  was  standing  waiting. 

“I  don’t  know  your  name,”  I  stammered,  “but 
won’t  you  call  ?” 


IV 


THE  GIRL  FROM  TUNIS 

BOUT  seven  o’clock  in  the  evening  I  started 
out  to  meet  the  tender  on  which  the  new 


nurse  for  St.  Margaret’s  was  to  arrive.  She 
was  to  start  the  new  training  school  for  Chinese 
nurses.  Her  name  was  Miss  Laurie,  and  she  was  a 
Bryn  Mawr  girl.  So  much  and  no  more  we  knew. 
Doctor  Donnellon  and  I  had  been  speculating  about 
her.  Doctor  Donnellon  hoped  she  would  have  a  good 
digestion,  and  I  hoped  she  wouldn’t  be  too  good  to 
live  with.  I  had  put  a  bunch  of  violets  in  an  old 
brass  bowl  on  the  dressing  table  in  her  room  and  had 
lent  her  my  window  curtains  freshly  starched  and 
ruffled.  I  didn’t  want  her  room  to  look  too  barren. 

Nanking  Road  was  thronged  with  Chinese.  Two 
new  jeweler  shops  had  been  recently  opened,  and 
the  entire  fagades  of  the  two  buildings  were  covered 
with  hundreds  of  colored  electric  lights  in  rosettes 
of  rainbow  silk  ;  and  in  the  fantastic  shapes  of  tigers 
and  dragons  and  roosters.  Opposite  their  blazing 
front  the  street  was  blocked  with  gaping  admirers. 
The  flare  of  the  light  was  reflected  against  the  sky 
in  a  luminous  haze. 

Marching  along  by  the  curbing,  in  groups  of  twos 
and  threes,  followed  at  a  respectful  distance  by  their 


THE  GIRL  FROM  TUNIS 


3i 


ever-watchful  amahs,  were  the  satin-trousered 
night  slaves  of  the  east,  young  girls  with  spots  of 
scarlet  on  their  eyelids  and  upper  lips.  At  the 
debouchment  of  the  cross  roads,  drab-colored  groups 
clustered  and  peered  enviously  at  the  satin-clad 
girls  that  walked  the  road.  Before  the  new  Chinese 
theater  advertising  ideographs  flashed  in  changing 
colors.  In  my  mood  of  the  moment  China  seemed 
quite  progressive  and  up  to  date. 

At  the  jetty  I  found  that  the  tender  was  expected 
in  ten  minutes.  Standing  at  the  end  of  the  wharf,  I 
scanned  the  harbor,  an  indistinct,  blue-gray  back¬ 
ground,  against  which  the  junks  and  launches  moved 
as  darker  shadows  punctuated  with  light.  The 
black  outline  of  a  warship,  pierced  with  innumerable, 
tiny  yellow  globes  of  light,  loomed  through  the 
gloom.  While  I  was  watching  her,  a  junk  with  a 
high  curling  poop  and  a  tall  oblong  sail  slipped 
between  us.  Close  to  the  pier,  within  the  radius  of 
its  light,  rocked  a  dozen  or  so  small  rowboats.  On 
each  side  of  the  prows  were  carved  and  painted  eyes 
that  made  the  boats  look  like  sea  dragons. 

A  group  of  Europeans  were  waiting  at  one  end  of 
the  jetty,  and  beyond  them  were  Chinese,  some  in 
foreign  cloth  suits  and  some  in  native  satins.  I 
was  struck  by  the  barbaric  gorgeousness  of  one  tall, 
handsome  young  man.  His  queue  was  cut,  and  his 
hair  had  been  allowed  to  grow  thick  and  long  over 
his  forehead  and  neck.  Instead  of  an  appearance  of 
femininity,  this  gave  him  a  look  of  fierce,  almost 
cruel  strength.  His  short,  sleeveless  outer  jacket 
was  of  plum-colored  satin,  and  his  long  garment  of 


32 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


slate-blue  satin  lined  with  very  white  and  very 
fleecy  lambs’  wool.  A  Frenchman  w'ith  upturned 
moustaches  and  full  beard  joined  them.  His  appear¬ 
ance  was  shabby  and  mediocre,  and  his  stature 
stunted.  In  no  way,  except  in  the  nameless  flavor 
of  race,  could  he  compare  with  the  splendid  specimen 
of  Chinese  manhood  before  him.  He  was  evidently  a 
piece  of  driftwood  whom  life  was  treating  badly,  yet 
he  thrust  out  his  chest  vain-gloriously  and  spoke  in 
shrill,  excited  tones. 

“  I  tell  you  again  and  again,  she  vill  gome.  Regard 
me.  Am  I  not  her  elder  broder?  Am  I  not  head 
of  my  family?  Have  no  fear.  She  gomes.” 

The  man’s  words  were  easily  heard,  and  they 
aroused  my  curiosity. 

A  series  of  harsh  toots  announced  the  arrival  of 
the  tender.  The  passengers  were  lined  along  the 
rail,  and  I  scanned  their  faces  eagerly  in  search  of 
Miss  Laurie.  She  was  to  wear  an  American  flag 
pinned  on  her  coat.  In  the  twilight  on  the  deck  I 
could  distinguish  no  separating  badge,  but  as  the 
passengers  stepped  gingerly  down  the  gangplank, 
the  familiar  colors  greeted  me  from  the  jacket  of  the 
third  comer.  Miss  Laurie  was  tall  and  stately  and 
young.  As  we  shook  hands,  I  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
blue  and  her  hair  gold. 

“She  looks  good,”  I  said  to  myself.  “It  is 
fortunate  she  is  blond.  Blond  holiness  is  so  much 
less  disagreeable  than  brunette  holiness.” 

“You  must  be  nearly  famished,”  I  said  to  her. 
“Doctor  Donnellon  is  waiting  dinner.  If  you  will 
point  out  your  trunks  to  our  boy,  he  will  attend  to 


THE  GIRL  FROM  TUNIS 


33 


bringing  them  up.  What  kind  of  a  trip  have  you 
had?  Was  it  frightfully  hot  in  the  Red  Sea?” 

Miss  Laurie  had  come  out  via  Europe. 

“For  twenty-four  hours  it  was  rather  uncomfort¬ 
able,”  she  answered,  “but  I  didn’t  mind  it  much. 
The  two  typhoons  we  ran  into  on  the  way  up  from 
Canton  were  infinitely  more  unpleasant.”  She  broke 
off  abruptly  to  hurry  after  a  vanishing  trunk. 
After  a  short  search  for  her  belongings,  we  were 
ready  to  leave. 

“Just  a  moment  more,”  said  Miss  Laurie.  “I 
want  to  say  good-by  to  a  charming  French  girl 
that  I  met  on  the  steamer,  Ther&se  Fleurir.  I  have 
been  watching  for  her,  but  I  have  not  seen  her  get 
off.  She  is  coming  out  to  be  married.  Her  elder 
brother,  whom  she  has  not  seen  for  years,  has  arranged 
it.  Isn’t  it  a  hideous  method?  But  she  doesn’t 
seem  to  mind ;  on  the  contrary,  she  is  elated  at  the 
prospect  and  looks  upon  it  as  a  release.  She  lived 
in  Tunis  and  had  a  position  as  a  stenographer  in 
the  French  Embassy.” 

Miss  Laurie  hurried  up  the  gangplank,  leaving  me 
plunged  in  dismay.  It  was  painfully  easy  to  fit 
together  brother  and  sister  and  to  fathom  the  trap 
that  had  been  laid  for  the  girl.  I  wondered  if  she 
would  mind.  You  never  can  tell  about  “foreigners.” 
The  Chinamen  were  evidently  rich. 

As  I  turned  from  again  staring  at  the  Chinese,  Miss 
Laurie  was  descending  the  gangplank.  Following 
her  came  a  slight,  shrinking  figure  dressed  in  subdued 
colors,  save  for  two  crimson  plumes  in  her  soft  black 
hat.  The  girl  was  trying  to  hide  behind  Miss 


34 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


Laurie.  Miss  Laurie  beckoned  to  me  and  I  hurried 
towards  her. 

“May  I  bring  Ther£se  to  the  mission  house  for 
to-night?”  she  asked.  “She  is  frightened  and 
terrified  at  something  she  has  seen.” 

“Certainly,”  I  answered. 

Miss  Laurie  stepped  aside.  For  an  instant  the 
French  girl  hesitated.  An  arc  light  threw  its  glare 
over  her,  revealing  a  face  both  delicate  and  intelli¬ 
gent.  In  that  instant’s  pause,  the  chance  for  es¬ 
cape  unrecognized  was  lost.  The  shabby,  bearded 
Frenchman  leaped  forward. 

“Mon  Dieu  !  C’est  Ther£se,”  he  fairly  screamed. 

He  waved  his  cane  in  the  air  and  caught  her  by 
the  arm,  dragging  her  towards  the  group  of  China¬ 
men. 

“You  see,  you  see,”  he  cried,  hopping  about  in 
wild  satisfaction.  “Behold,  I  write,  she  gome. 
See,  is  she  not  beautiful?  White  skin,  like  ze  so 
rare  snow,  a  straight  nose,  and  small  feet.  Ah ! 
Zay  vill  not  disgrace  you,  zose  feet,  nor  ze  feet  of 
your  shildren.  May  you  have  only  men  shildren ! 
To-night  you  shall  be  married.  But  first  you  must 
pay  me  ze  sum  you  promised,  the  five  hundred 
taels.” 

The  man’s  voice  climbed  higher  and  higher  till 
he  shrieked  the  last  sentence.  During  his  harangue 
the  girl  stood  as  if  utterly  dazed.  At  the  end  she 
lifted  her  eyes  to  sweep  the  circle  of  Oriental  faces 
hemming  her  in. 

“Salute  her,”  the  brother  urged,  “like  a  gentle¬ 


man. 


THE  GIRL  FROM  TUNIS 


35 


The  Frenchman  gave  the  tall  handsome  youth  a 
vigorous  dig  with  his  cane.  The  boy  laughed  aloud. 

“Like  a  foreigner  I  will  salute  her,”  he  shouted 
triumphantly. 

Catching  the  French  girl  in  his  arms,  he  kissed  her. 

The  touch  stung  her  to  life.  She  wrenched  herself 
free  and  rushed  to  the  edge  of  the  pier.  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  white  despairing  face  under  the  flame- 
colored  plumes.  Simultaneously  Miss  Laurie  and  I 
grasped  her  intention.  Miss  Laurie  caught  her  in  her 
strong  arms. 

“Let  me  go,”  she  stormed.  “To  die  now  is 
fitting.  So  it  must  be.  A  daughter  of  my  race 
cannot  marry  a  Chinaman.” 

She  struggled  wildly,  but  Miss  Laurie  held  her 
securely,  and  I  heard  her  whispering  insistently  to 
the  girl.  I  turned  to  the  rabid  brother.  Like  a 
vexed  child,  he  was  dancing  up  and  down  with  mor¬ 
tification  and  anger. 

“Such  an  insult!  The  ingrate!  Here,  have  I 
found  a  rich  husband  who  is  willing  to  marry  her, 
marry  her  legally,  I  say,  and  the  first  moment  she 
meets  him,  she  insults  him.  Listen,  Ther^se,”  he 
called,  edging  nearer  the  girl.  “Remember  your 
life  of  drudgery,  no  pleasure,  no  fine  clothes,  no 
jewels,  no  pastries.  Consider  it  well.  He  will  give 
you  everything.  Regard  him.  I  say  that  he  is 
rich.” 

At  this  point  the  Chinese  broke  in  stormily. 
From  their  conversation  I  gathered  that  the  bride¬ 
groom’s  family  had  already  paid  down  five  hundred 
taels  for  the  girl  and  that  five  hundred  more  were 


36 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


to  be  handed  over  upon  her  arrival.  Fearing  to 
lose  both  money  and  face,  they  were  furious  and 
insisted  upon  possession  of  the  girl. 

I  was  at  my  wits’  end.  Whatever  happened  to¬ 
night  would  be  irrevocable,  either  the  Chinaman 
would  get  Therese,  or  we  would  rescue  her.  Save 
for  a  gang  of  coolies  unloading  cargo,  we  were  alone 
on  the  jetty.  I  longed  for  a  man,  and,  above  all 
other  men,  for  Edward  Stevens,  my  pagoda  man. 
My  wish  was  a  prophecy.  Looking  up  the  road,  I 
saw  him  walking  briskly  toward  us.  I  ran  to  him 
and  broke  into  breathless  explanations. 

“You  want  to  take  the  French  girl  with  you 
to-night;  is  that  it?”  he  asked. 

“Yes,”  I  answered.  “Arrange  for  to-night,  now. 
To-morrow  we  can  settle  matters.” 

Edward  stood  a  moment  scrutinizing  the  group 
of  Chinese,  then  he  selected  the  oldest  man  dressed 
in  foreign  clothes  and  addressed  his  remarks  to  him. 

“  I  understand  that  you  wish  to  obtain  in  marriage 
for  one  of  your  family  a  foreign-born  maiden  and  in 
all  things  to  follow  the  foreign  custom,”  he  said 
courteously. 

Edward’s  clear,  incisive  words  held  their  attention. 
The  shabby  brother,  with  his  cane  still  poised  in  mid¬ 
air,  stopped  in  the  midst  of  a  sentence.  Even 
Therese  checked  her  sobs  to  listen. 

“It  is  not  according  to  ‘Old  Custom’  to  take  the 
maiden  to  your  house  to-night.  To-night  she  must 
lodge  with  her  friends  and  to-morrow  the  bride¬ 
groom  may  seek  her  there.  I  will  give  you  my 
address,  and  you  can  call  in  the  morning.” 


THE  GIRL  FROM  TUNIS 


37 


Edward  took  out  his  visiting  card  and  handed  it 
to  the  old  man. 

The  Frenchman  expostulated.  “Do  not  listen  to 
him  ;  it  is  not  so.” 

Edward  turned  on  him  with  subdued  anger. 
“Shut  up  !”  he  whispered  fiercely.  “  I  am  managing 
this  affair  now.” 

The  fellow  cringed.  He  disgusted  me,  but  he 
looked  as  if  he  had  been  half  fed  for  years,  and  I 
was  sorry  for  him  in  spite  of  myself. 

That  was  the  end  of  the  affair.  Edward’s  presence 
calmed  every  one.  The  Chinamen  dispersed,  the 
shabby  outcast  slunk  away.  Edward  put  Miss 
Laurie  and  Ther£se  into  a  cab,  and  we  got  into 
another. 

I  smiled  at  him.  “Edward  to  the  rescue  again,” 
I  said  gratefully.  “If  you  stay  in  Shanghai  much 
longer,  Mr.  Stevens,  I  shall  grow  to  be  quite 
dependent  on  you.” 

“Nothing  would  please  me  better,”  he  answered. 

“How  out  of  date  you  are,”  I  replied.  “Now¬ 
adays,  men  like  self-reliant  girls  who  carry  their 
own  suit  cases  and  who  don’t  need  to  be  seen  home 
in  the  evenings.” 

“If  that  is  your  idea  of  modern  men,”  Edward 
answered,  “I  am  thankful  you  class  me  among  the 
ancients.” 

“How  do  you  like  Shanghai?”  I  asked. 

“Only  fairly  well,”  he  answered.  “As  a  place 
for  courting  it  has  certain  advantages.  It  provides 
medieval  situations  of  ‘Fair  Damsel  in  distress’ 
and  ‘Gallant  Knight  to  the  rescue.’  However  I 


38 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


do  not  know  whether  such  episodes  are  not  too 
dearly  bought  by  the  lack  of  woods  and  trees  and 
streams  and  wild  flowers.” 

“The  moon  and  the  stars  are  still  left,”  I  sug¬ 
gested. 

“Too  remote,”  Edward  objected. 

“How  did  you  happen  to  come  to  meet  Miss 
Laurie?”  I  questioned. 

“  I  didn’t  ‘happen  to  come’,”  he  replied  ;  “  I  came 
because  you  wanted  me.” 

“I  never  once  thought  of  you,”  I  exclaimed. 
“First  I  was  thinking  about  Miss  Laurie  and  then 
about  the  French  girl.” 

For  reply,  Mr.  Stevens  looked  at  me  strangely. 
I  don’t  know  what  to  do  when  he  looks  at  me  that 
way.  I  feel  as  if  a  door  in  my  brain  had  opened  to 
him,  and  he  knew  all  my  thoughts. 

“I  should  have  said,  I  came  because  I  was  think¬ 
ing  of  you,”  he  corrected  himself.  “My  thoughts 
led  my  footsteps.” 

When  a  clever  man  is  gracious,  he  is  really  very 
attractive.  I  was  in  a  yielding  mood,  and  such 
places  are  dangerous.  But  being  a  woman  of  years, 
I  was  discreet.  I  leaned  back  in  the  corner  of  the 
seat  and  changed  the  subject. 

“What  will  become  of  the  poor  child  Ther£se?”  I 
asked. 

“I  will  go  to  the  French  consul  in  the  morning 
and  have  the  matter  put  straight,”  Mr.  Stevens 
replied.  “That  scoundrelly  brother  will  have  to 
fork  up  his  five  hundred  taels  and  make  all  the 
amends  he  can.  As  for  what  will  become  of  the 


THE  GIRL  FROM  TUNIS 


39 


girl,  you  women  will  have  to  decide.  After  all, 
when  she  grows  used  to  the  idea,  she  may  be  willing 
to  marry  the  Chinaman.” 

We  had  reached  the  steps  of  the  mission  house, 
where  Doctor  Donnellon  was  receiving  the  two  girls. 

“  I  can  believe  it  was  a  shock  to  her,”  Mr.  Stevens 
continued,  “as  she  was  evidently  expecting  some¬ 
thing  very  different.” 

“It’s  quite  too  much  of  a  shock  to  contemplate 
marrying  at  all,  no  matter  how  nice  the  man,”  I 
said,  as  I  sprang  out  of  the  carriage  and  followed  the 
others. 


V 

GLOWING  NEEDLES 

THERESE  clung  to  Miss  Laurie  piteously. 

The  next  morning  after  her  arrival  she  had 
absolutely  refused  to  see  or  write  to  her 
brother,  and  as  Mr.  Stevens  had  given  the  China¬ 
men  only  his  own  address,  the  fellow  had  no  means 
of  tracing  his  sister.  The  affair  was  fixed  up 
amicably  with  the  Chinese.  The  brother  produced 
the  money  already  paid  over,  and  the  incident  was 
closed.  To  all  intents  and  purposes,  Therese  Fleurir 
was  swallowed  up  in  the  Orient.  For  days  she  was 
afraid  to  stir  out  of  the  house,  but  eventually  she 
found  a  position  to  teach  in  one  of  the  schools  in 
French  town.  The  salary  was  not  large,  but  it  was 
ample  for  clothes  and  board.  Doubtless,  sooner  or 
later,  Therese  would  marry,  so  the  incentive  to 
save  for  a  rainy  old  age  was  removed.  The  principal 
of  the  school,  a  rich  widow,  took  a  great  fancy  to 
her,  and  after  two  weeks  invited  Therese  to  live 
with  her.  Miss  Laurie  received  an  enthusiastic  note 
from  the  child. 

“The  house  is  beautiful,  so  large  and  so  much 
marble.  My  bathroom  has  white  tiles.  And, 
moreover,  Oh,  joy !  the  cuisine  is  French.  Come, 


GLOWING  NEEDLES 


4i 


my  friends,  and  taste  and  see  and  enjoy.  Madame 
Rounger  has  urged  me  to  invite  you.  The  time  is 
next  Thursday  for  dinner  at  eight.  Adieu,  I  live 
only  till  we  meet.” 

Miss  Laurie  smiled  over  the  exaggerated  wording 
of  the  letter,  but  nevertheless  she  was  pleased.  A 
“community  dinner”  is  a  distracting  event  in  a 
missionary’s  life. 

When  he  heard  of  Therese’s  position,  Mr.  Stevens 
shook  his  head  dubiously. 

“It  is  too  good  to  be  true,”  he  said.  “I  am 
afraid  Ther^se  has  leaped  from  the  frying  pan  into 
the  fire.  Anyway  I  hate  to  have  you  over  in 
Frenchtown  at  night.  I’ll  call  for  you  with  a 
carriage  at  ten  o’clock.” 

“That  is  much  too  early,”  I  cried.  “Dinner  will 
hardly  be  over.” 

“Four  women  can’t  eat  for  two  hours,”  Edward 
objected.  “I  shall  be  there  at  ten.” 

“Exactly,  ‘Just  four  women’!”  I  retorted, 
angered.  “You  needn’t  come  for  those  women  at 
all,  Mr.  Stevens.  They  prefer  to  do  as  they  please 
rather  than  to  ride  in  a  carriage  at  a  man’s  dictation.” 

“Firebrand!”  muttered  Edward.  “I  wonder 
what  you  will  set  alight!” 

“You?”  I  flung  at  him  tauntingly. 

For  answer,  Edward  looked  at  me  in  that  dis¬ 
concerting  way  of  his  which  makes  me  feel  there  is 
no  use  pretending.  I  like  Edward,  but  I  don’t 
like  men’s  attitude  toward  women.  Men  are 
handy,  that’s  all.  I  stiffened  and  refused  to  relent, 
though  Edward  harped  again  on  his  favorite  subject 


42 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


of  souls  akin.  Men  and  women  are  too  different 
to  be  akin.  They  are  like  the  banks  of  a  river, 
gashed  apart.  Often  and  often  Doctor  Donnellon 
lectured  me  on  my  man-hating  attitude.  “Don’t 
you  know  men  like  girls  who  hate  them  ?”  she  would 
say.  At  that  I  always  fled.  I  did  not  see  Edward 
again  before  the  night  of  the  dinner,  and  Miss  Laurie 
and  I  made  arrangements  to  keep  our  rickshas  all 
the  evening. 

Madame  Rounger’s  house  stood  in  a  large  garden 
and  thoroughly  came  up  to  Ther£se’s  description. 
Our  dilapidated  old  rickshas  seemed  very  in¬ 
significant,  rolling  in  under  the  high  porte-cochere. 
At  the  ignominious  moment  when  the  coolie  put 
the  shafts  on  the  ground  and  tilted  me  suddenly 
forwards,  as  if  I  were  descending  from  a  camel’s 
back,  a  luxurious  automobile  panted  up  behind  us. 
Four  gentlemen  in  evening  dress  got  out  of  the  car. 
Being  continental,  they  raised  their  hats  and  said 
“Good  evening.”  An  extremely  handsome  Chinese 
footman,  dressed  in  full  European  uniform,  opened 
the  door  to  us,  and  we  entered  a  hall,  the  entire 
height  of  the  house,  running  from  east  to  west.  In 
the  center,  on  either  side,  were  doorways  hung  with 
heavy  velvet  portieres  leading  to  the  salon  and  the 
dining  room. 

Ther&se  came  demurely  down  the  stairs  to  meet 
us,  and  led  us  up  to  her  room,  chatting  volubly  all 
the  way. 

“  It  is  to  be  a  big  dinner,”  she  announced  at  once. 
“A  man  apiece.” 

“Pooh,  I  would  not  have  come  if  I  had  known 


GLOWING  NEEDLES 


43 


there  were  going  to  be  men,”  I  exclaimed,  provoked 
in  spite  of  myself. 

“Silly,”  said  Ther&se  lightly,  “you  needn’t  be 
afraid.  You  look  very  pretty  to-night.  I  love 
that  turquoise  gown  of  yours.  It  makes  the  brown 
of  your  eyes  and  hair  deeper.  Besides,  the  food  will 
be  better  because  the  men  are  coming.” 

Therese,  in  cerise  chiffon,  was  an  effective  contrast 
to  the  pale,  gold  beauty  of  Miss  Laurie,  who  was 
in  absolute  white. 

“Ch6rie,”  cried  Therese,  turning  to  Miss  Laurie, 
“  I  am  so  glad  you  are  not  wearing  a  black  velvet 
bow  in  your  waist  or  a  narrow  black  band  around 
your  throat !  Only  blonds  pass6  and  wicked,  wish¬ 
ing  for  innocence,  do  that.  You  are  innocent.” 

“You  funny  child!”  answered  Miss  Laurie. 
“Because  my  skin  is  white,  must  my  soul  be  white 
too?” 

For  a  moment  the  young  girl’s  face  fell  into  the 
cast  of  tragedy  so  facile  to  the  Latin  race. 

“Yes,  yes,”  she  replied  quickly.  “See  me — I 
am  stained.” 

When  we  entered  the  salon  we  found  Madame 
Rounger  surrounded  by  the  men.  She  was  a 
handsome  woman  of  prepossessing  appearance,  skil¬ 
fully  dressed  in  black.  She  evidently  wished  to 
be  considered  young,  and  I  wondered  that  she 
tolerated  any  one  as  truly  young  as  Therese  near 
her.  As  soon  as  the  introductions  were  over, 
Madame  Rounger  drew  me  aside. 

“Therese  says  you  are  a  physician,  though  it  is 
hard  to  believe.  You  look  about  eighteen. 


44 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


Nevertheless,  she  assures  me  it  is  so.  Pray  forgive 
me  if  II  trouble  you.  Just  a  moment  ago,  my  table 
boy  came  to  me  in  great  consternation,  saying  that 
his  only  son  was  having  a  convulsion.  I  ordered 
him  to  immerse  the  child  at  once  in  a  hot  mustard 
bath.  May  I  beg  you  to  come  to  see  him  ?  I  shall 
feel  more  comfortable  through  dinner.” 

“Certainly,”  I  answered.  “I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  see  the  child.” 

Madame  Rounger  excused  herself  from  the  guests 
and  led  me  from  the  room,  through  the  back  hall, 
along  a  covered  corridor,  to  the  semi-detached 
servants’  quarters  in  the  rear.  On  the  second  floor 
the  doors  of  a  row  of  cell-like  rooms  opened  upon  a 
narrow  porch.  From  the  corner  room  came  the 
sound  of  confused  and  excited  talk.  The  small 
space  was  crowded  with  jabbering  women  and  boys. 
The  sick  child,  a  boy  about  ten,  had  just  been  taken 
out  of  the  mustard  bath  and  put  to  bed. 

“Let  us  turn  them  all  out  but  his  mother,”  I 
insisted.  “The  child  must  be  kept  quiet.” 
Madame  Rounger  and  I  pushed  the  women  out  by 
their  shoulders.  We  got  them  as  far  as  the  doorway, 
where  they  massed  themselves,  following  my  every 
motion  with  their  beady,  curious  eyes,  as  I  made  a 
quick  examination  of  the  child.  Madame  Rounger 
was  able  to  supply  me  with  the  simple  remedies 
that  were  needed,  and  after  half  an  hour’s  work,  I 
left  the  child  sleeping  quietly.  As  Madame  and  I 
left  the  room,  the  Chinese  squeezed  in  behind  us  like 
an  irresistible  tide  of  water,  eddying  and  flooding 
the  land. 


GLOWING  NEEDLES 


45 


The  dinner  was  delicious.  Afterwards  we 
scattered  through  the  wide  salon  to  drink  our 
coffee,  the  men  still  with  us,  smoking  cigarettes. 
Ther£se,  opposite  me,  was  smoking  too. 

“Charmante,”  murmured  Monsieur  Armand,  an 
old,  white-haired  gentleman  beside  me.  “Do  you 
not  also  smoke?” 

“No,”  I  answered  simply,  “I  am  a  missionary.” 

“Ah,  Mademoiselle,  that  is  no  answer,”  he  said, 
spreading  out  his  hands  and  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
“Smoking  is  not  a  deadly  sin.” 

“But  there  are  prejudices,”  I  objected.  “It 
would  never  do  for  a  missionary  to  smoke.” 

“Anglo-Saxon  !”  he  blurted  out.  “Incomprehen¬ 
sible  people !  They  permit  their  young  women  to 
come,  unprotected,  halfway  around  the  world  to  a 
heathen,  Chinese  city,  but  to  smoke  a  delightful 
little  cigarette  after  dinner,  at  home  with  friends, 
Ah,  no !  Mon  Dieu  !  That  is  scandalous  !  Dangers 
they  allow  you,  but  no  pleasures.” 

“But  I  don’t  care  to  smoke,”  I  answered. 

“Ah,  no!  Of  course  not.  You  are  like  a  little 
saint,  a  medieval  saint  who  stood  away  off  in  a 
stained-glass  window  and  smiled  on  the  world  with 
sweet,  pensive  eyes  and  her  smile  was  a  blessing.” 

“I’m  not  at  all  like  that,”  I  contradicted  sadly. 
“I’m  not  up  in  any  cathedral  window.  I’m  here, 
working  in  China ;  I’ve  come,  as  you  say,  halfway 
around  the  world  to  work  here.  Nor  am  I  pensive 
or  sweet:  I  wish  I  were.  I’m  not  really  good 
enough  to  be  a  missionary ;  I’m  just  like  everybody 
else.” 


46 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


The  Frenchman  looked  at  me  as  if  I  had  been  his 
daughter.  I  grew  red  and  wondered  why  I  had 
been  so  outspoken.  Instinctively,  I  had  relied 
upon  his  ready  sympathy  and  understanding. 

“You  do  not  know  yourself,  Mademoiselle,”  he 
replied.  “You  cannot  see  the  soft,  gentle  light  in 
your  brown  eyes.  Yet,  you  are  making  a  mistake. 
I  am  not  so  old-fashioned  as  to  think  all  women 
should  be  mothers  —  some  are  too  hard  and  cruel, 
some  too  unstable  and  melancholy,  some  too  stupid 
and  dull.  But  you,  you  ought  to  be  a  mother.” 

I  sat  speechless  before  Monsieur  Armand.  I  was 
astonished  that  I  was  not  angry,  but  for  the  moment 
I  was  as  simple  and  unaffected  as  he. 

“And  leave  my  work?”  I  exclaimed. 

“To  find  your  work,”  he  answered. 

In  the  pause  that  followed  a  shrill  scream  startled 
us.  I  sprang  to  my  feet.  “The  little  boy,”  I  cried, 
and  ran  from  the  room.  Scream  after  scream  filled 
the  air,  the  wild  terrified  screaming  of  a  child  in 
sharp  pain.  I  ran  quickly  along  the  corridor  and  up 
the  stairs.  The  door  of  the  child’s  room  was  blocked 
with  figures.  I  pounded  at  the  shoulders  of  the 
nearest  and  pushed  at  them  till  they  moved  aside  and 
let  me  pass.  For  half  a  moment,  frozen  with  horror, 
I  paused  on  the  threshold. 

The  child,  naked,  was  lashed  to  the  bed  with  his 
arms  outstretched  along  the  footboard.  His  head 
was  thrown  back,  and  his  eyes  glared  wildly  at  the 
people.  Trickles  of  blood  were  running  down  the 
calves  of  his  legs  and  dripping  from  his  forearms.  In 
the  air  was  the  nauseous  odor  of  burnt  flesh.  An 


GLOWING  NEEDLES 


47 


old  priest  in  a  hideously  dirty  robe  sprang  up  from 
the  floor  and  thrust  a  red-hot  needle  through  the 
child’s  leg.  The  boy  writhed  and  screamed  with 
pain. 

I  ran  to  him  and  jerked  the  burning  needle  out  of 
his  flesh  and  began  pulling  out  the  other  needles 
which  were  stuck  at  random  in  his  arms  and  legs. 
The  Chinese  behind  me  pulled  at  me  and  tried  to 
catch  my  hands.  The  old  priest  broke  into  a  torrent 
of  threats  and  insults.  The  needles  I  had  plucked 
out  still  glowed,  red-hot,  on  the  floor.  I  faced  the 
Chinese  angrily.  They  began  to  remember  I  was 
a  foreigner,  within  the  settlement,  and  they,  only 
tolerated  aliens.  One  by  one  they  slunk  away,  till 
only  the  priest  was  left  bending  over  the  charcoal 
fire,  muttering  maledictions  on  the  white  woman.  I 
cut  the  thongs  and  loosed  the  child.  He  seemed  to 
know  I  was  his  deliverer,  for  he  clung  to  me  in  frantic 
terror,  sobbing  and  screaming. 

Madame  Rounger  and  Monsieur  Armand  appeared 
in  the  doorway.  Madame  Rounger  turned  out  the 
old  priest  without  ceremony  and  scolded  her  servant 
energetically. 

“You  shall  go  if  you  have  any  more  of  your 
heathen  practices  in  my  house,”  she  said.  “How 
often  have  I  told  you  you  cannot  do  such  things. 
You  are  not  fit  to  have  a  child !” 

“But,  Madame,”  stammered  the  terrified  servant, 
“the  devil  have  ca tehee  my  son.  Must  makee 
drive  away.  No  can  lose  one  only  son.  Must 
makee  drive  away,  must  piercee  with  burning 
needles.  No  can  help.  Must  do.” 


48 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


The  Chinaman  began  to  cry.  He  was  torn  be¬ 
tween  a  thousand  fears  of  the  evil  spirits,  of  the 
strange  white  woman,  of  the  burning  needles.  I 
soothed  the  child  in  my  arms,  and  looked  up  at 
Monsieur  Armand  who  stood  beside  me. 

“How  can  you  ask  me  to  give  up  a  work  like 
this?”  I  asked. 

He  answered  slowly,  stroking  the  little  boy’s  sleek 
black  head  that  lay  against  my  shoulder. 

“If  you  had  loved  children  enough,  you  would 
have  guessed  beforehand  what  these  heathen  Chinese 
parents  would  do.”  I  wondered  if  he  were  right. 

Edward  called  for  us  with  an  auto.  Miss  Laurie 
had  decided  to  spend  the  night  with  Ther£se,  so 
he  and  I  were  alone  in  the  tonneau. 

“Do  you  want  to  go  directly  home?”  Edward 
asked.  “Let  us  first  go  to  the  point  and  back.” 

I  acquiesced.  I  liked  the  drive  to  the  point  along 
the  river  bank.  The  night  was  clearly  lit  with 
stars.  Two  junks  were  creeping  up  the  river,  their 
huge  sails  looming,  in  the  twilight,  like  the  out¬ 
spread  wings  of  a  gigantic  bat.  The  air  from  the 
water  was  fresh. 

“Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  about  the  first  time 
I  saw  you,”  said  Edward. 

“You  have  already,”  I  answered.  “It  was  in 
the  Temple  of  the  Red-lipped  Idols.” 

“No,”  he  said.  “It  was  exactly  one  year  earlier. 
There  had  been  a  heavy  snowstorm  in  Philadelphia, 
and  the  sleighing  was  good.  I  had  hired  a  team  of 
horses  and  a  small  sleigh  and  had  gone  for  a  long 
night  ride.  No  wonder  Ludwig  of  Bavaria  was 


GLOWING  NEEDLES 


49 


wild  about  snow  at  night !  It  is  the  most  wonderful, 
the  most  fairylike  sight  on  earth.  I  came  back 
through  Fairmount  Park  along  the  Skuylkill  and 
down  Diamond  Street.  It  was  after  midnight,  and 
this  part  of  the  town  was  silent  and  soundless  as  a 
desert,  rows  and  rows  of  small  brick  houses  exactly 
alike,  with  lights  out  and  shutters  closed.  At  the 
crossing  of  Twenty-third  and  Diamond  an  arc  light 
sputtered  brightly.  The  horses  were  galloping  softly 
on  the  thick  snow.  The  bells  on  their  collars  made 
the  only  sound  in  the  stillness  of  the  sleeping  city. 

“At  the  corner,  I  looked  up,  suddenly  and  swiftly. 
In  a  third-story  window  knelt  a  girl  in  a  white  gown 
with  a  mass  of  soft  brown  hair  loose  upon  her 
shoulders.  Our  eyes  met.  She  drew  back,  startled, 
and  the  horses  whirled  me  past.  Like  a  knight  of 
old  I  have  come  searching  for  that  girl.  In  that 
lightning  glance  her  spirit  called  to  my  spirit.” 

Edward  turned  and  looked  at  me.  “Do  you 
remember  it?”  he  asked  softly. 

Mute  with  astonishment,  I  nodded. 

“I  had  come  home  from  the  theater,”  I  explained 
later.  “I  had  seen  Mansfield  in  ‘Peer  Gynt’, 
and  the  spell  of  the  play  was  still  on  me.  I  could 
not  go  to  bed,  so  I  knelt  at  the  window  and  waited. 
I  watched  the  electric  light  sparkle  on  the  snowflakes. 
The  city  was  intensely  still.  Then,  far  off  in  the 
remoteness,  I  heard  sleigh  bells.  They  seemed  to 
be  what  I  had  been  waiting  for.  I  had  listened  to 
them  for  several  minutes  before  the  sleigh  dashed 
past,  yet  when  you  looked  up,  I  was  startled.  I 
drew  back  and  knelt  there,  harkening,  while  the 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


5o 

sound  of  the  bells  grew  fainter.  After  I  could  hear 
them  no  longer,  I  still  knelt  at  the  window,  listening 
and  watching  the  light  sparkle  on  the  snow.” 

Edward’s  hand  closed  over  mine. 

“Though  you  fled  halfway  around  the  world  to 
escape  me,  you  could  not,”  he  said. 

I  left  my  fingers  in  his.  The  air  from  the  water 
was  cool  and  fresh  in  our  faces.  The  gliding  junks 
were  out  of  sight  —  only  the  wide,  slow  stream 
crept  along  the  bank. 


VI 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  EAST 

I  WAS  amusing  myself  and  incidentally  the  chil¬ 
dren  by  distributing  a  stack  of  old  Christmas 
cards  in  the  ward.  My  explanations  were  some¬ 
what  crude  and  simple,  as  my  Chinese  vocabulary 
was  still  limited.  Doctor  Donnellon  and  Miss 
Lancaster  came  in.  Miss  Lancaster  has  charge  of 
the  municipal  orphanage  for  city  waifs,  and  her  sick 
children  are  taken  care  of  at  St.  Margaret’s. 

“I’ve  just  had  a  most  embarrassing  experience,” 
said  Miss  Lancaster,  laughing  at  me.  “I  came  to 
take  the  ‘Blue  Moon’  back  with  me,  but  she  won’t 
come.  She  said  the  ‘Summertime  Doctor’  (which 
is  my  Chinese  name)  had  given  her  two  pennies, 
and  that  if  I  would  let  her  stay  a  little  longer  perhaps 
the  doctor  would  give  her  another.” 

“You  are  spoiling  these  children,”  said  Doctor 
Donnellon,  shaking  her  finger  at  me.  “A  moment 
ago  the  matron  sent  for  me  to  see  the  owners  of 
‘Weeping  Willow’,  who  wished  to  take  her  home. 
The  youngster  was  making  a  terrible  rumpus,  and 
begging  to  be  allowed  to  stay.  What  do  you  suppose 
she  said?  ‘Please,  Foreign  Healer,  let  me  stay  and 
be  the  little  slave  of  the  hospital !  Here,  when  the 
amahs  beat  me,  their  hands  are  light.’  ” 


52 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“Poor  little  kid,”  I  said,  “I  wish  we  could  keep 
them  all.” 

“Even  the  little  slave  girls  are  better  off  than  my 
waifs,”  said  Miss  Lancaster. 

A  sudden  commotion  in  the  courtyard  startled 
us.  Running  to  the  nearest  window,  I  saw  four 
men  bringing  in  a  long  wicker  couch,  upon  which  lay 
a  figure  closely  covered  with  blankets.  A  dozen  or 
more  men  and  women  surrounded  the  couch.  A 
nurse  came  flying  upstairs. 

“She  has  eaten  opium,”  she  cried  excitedly. 

“Another  one  of  those  tragic  cases,”  said  Doctor 
Donnellon,  as  we  hurried  down.  “So  often  the 
family  only  bring  the  victims  to  us  as  a  last  resort 
when  it  is  too  late  to  save  the  patient.” 

Before  coming  to  China  I  had  never  known  that 
eating  opium  was  the  favorite  way  of  committing 
suicide,  nor  had  I  imagined  the  alarming  frequency 
of  such  attempts. 

The  bearers  had  deposited  the  couch  in  the  empty 
clinic  room.  Some  one  uncovered  the  girl’s  face  — 
pale  and  tranquil  as  the  face  of  one  already  lying  in 
the  shadow  of  death.  Its  serene  beauty  fascinated 
me.  It  seemed  almost  sacrilegious  to  begin  artificial 
respiration  and  energetic  stimulation.  Among  the 
group  gathered  round  two  figures  stand  out  in  my 
memory.  One  was  that  of  a  woman  who  stood  close 
beside  the  young  girl,  looking  at  her  fixedly.  Now 
and  again  she  put  out  her  hand  and  laid  the  back  of 
it  against  the  girl’s  cheek.  She  neither  cried  nor 
spoke.  The  other  was  a  man  dressed  handsomely  in 
satin,  who  stood  aside  talking  to  the  matron  and 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  EAST 


S3 


Doctor  Donnellon.  Now  and  again  he  glanced  at 
the  girl,  yet  in  his  impassive  face  I  could  see  no 
trace  of  emotion.  The  rest  of  the  group  shrieked 
and  talked  wildly  and  could  not  be  quieted.  Doctor 
Donnellon  gave  her  orders  with  the  surety  of 
long  experience.  Slowly,  rhythmically,  we  raised 
the  girl’s  arms  above  her  head  and  crossed  them 
over  her  chest.  There  was  no  answering  tinge 
of  color  in  her  lips,  no  spontaneous  flutter  of  her 
breath. 

“  It’s  a  hopeless  case,”  said  Doctor  Donnellon. 
“She  ate  the  opium  about  ten  this  morning  but 
was  not  discovered  till  four  this  afternoon.  Then 
they  brought  her  right  around.” 

“Why  did  she  take  it?”  I  asked.  “Was  she  a 
slave  ?” 

“No,  she  is  a  second  wife,”  Doctor  Donnellon 
said.  “That  man  is  her  husband.  She  has  been 
married  about  six  months.” 

“  I  don’t  wonder  she  ate  it,”  I  exclaimed.  “  Prac¬ 
tically  she  was  a  slave.” 

“Oh,  no,”  Doctor  Donnellon  answered.  “If  the 
first  wife  has  no  children,  a  Chinaman  marries  a 
second,  and  if  she  bears  him  children,  she  is  honored 
above  the  first.  In  this  case  the  Great  Wife,  as  the 
first  is  called,  was  very  fond  of  this  girl.  The  hus¬ 
band  also  valued  her  highly.  She  was  not  at  all 
mistreated.” 

“Then  why?”  I  asked  again,  raising  my  eyes  to 
Doctor  Donnellon.  Her  face,  beside  that  of  the 
immobile  Chinese  woman,  had  the  same  expression 
of  submission  to  fate. 


54 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“She  must  die,”  interposed  the  Chinese  woman, 
again  touching  the  girl’s  cold  face. 

“Because  she  was  forced  to  leave  her  mother.” 
Doctor  Donnellon  answered.  “This  woman  is  her 
mother.” 

I  looked  at  the  mother  and  daughter  and  pondered 
upon  the  strange  love  that  had  held  them  together. 

The  woman  touched  Doctor  Donnellon’s  arm. 
“  It  is  enough,”  she  said.  “The  spirit  is  already  gone. 
Permit  me  now  to  take  my  daughter  home  and  light 
the  red  candles  and  offer  the  food  that  everything 
may  be  fitting  for  the  journey  of  her  spirit.” 

Doctor  Donnellon  ceased  her  labor.  Quiet,  with 
the  strange,  sure  repose  of  death,  the  girl  lay  upon 
the  couch.  Suddenly,  some  one  began  to  laugh,  and 
immediately  the  entire  group  were  laughing  loudly. 
I  turned  away.  That  sound  of  laughter  as  a  greeting 
to  death  always  curdled  my  blood  with  horror.  I 
had  heard  it  before  in  the  wards  when  a  patient 
died,  and  the  rest  sat  up  in  bed  and  laughed  aloud. 
Doctor  Donnellon  followed  me  out  of  the  room. 

“Doesn’t  it  make  you  shiver?”  I  asked. 

“Yes,”  she  said,  “  I  can’t  get  used  to  it.  It  seems 
heartless,  but  no  one  can  accuse  the  Chinese  of  that. 
Their  loves  are  not  our  loves,  but  they  are  great 
loves.  Think  of  this  young  girl.  She  made  one 
early  attempt  to  run  home  and  was  brought  back. 
Then  she  bought  morphine,  and  the  first  wife  found 
it.  This  time  she  had  been  buying  it  little  by  little 
for  months  and  hiding  it  in  her  money  belt  till  she 
had  enough  for  a  fatal  dose.” 

I  was  silent,  considering  what  seemed  to  me  a 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  EAST 


55 


childish,  morbid,  uncontrolled  affection.  Doctor 
Donnellon  must  have  read  my  thoughts. 

“All  great  nations  have  their  own  peculiar 
romance,”  she  said.  “In  ancient  times  romance 
lay  in  the  friendship  of  man  for  man,  in  the  David 
and  Jonathan  sort  of  relationship.  Later  on,  in 
the  feudal  ages,  romance  dwelt  in  the  service  of  a 
vassal  to  his  king,  and  loyalty  was  the  great  romance 
of  life.  In  our  modern  American  world  the  love 
of  a  man  for  a  woman  is  the  great  romance.” 

I  caught  Doctor  Donnellon’s  idea.  “Not  the 
relationship,  but  the  romance,  is  indispensable,”  I 
said  quickly. 

“Exactly,”  Doctor  Donnellon  replied.  “At  home, 
there  is  a  new  romance  growing  up,  the  friendship  of 
woman  for  woman,  that  parallels  the  ancient  friend¬ 
ship  of  men.  But  in  China  all  romance  centers  in 
the  relation  of  parent  to  child.  Marriage  is  no 
more  to  them  than  an  ordinary  business  enterprise.” 

We  had  reached  the  steps  of  the  house  during  our 
philosophizing,  and  Doctor  Donnellon  turned  to 
face  the  hospital.  Its  many  windows  and  wide 
verandahs  gave  it  a  comfortable,  inviting  appear¬ 
ance.  On  the  second-story  porch,  a  group  of  waifs 
were  playing.  The  sun  was  low,  and  the  sky 
above  the  buildings  burned  a  deep,  golden  yellow. 
Already,  close  over  the  ground,  a  faint,  misty  veil 
hung.  With  a  quick,  spontaneous  motion,  Doctor 
Donnellon  threw  out  one  hand  towards  the  hospital. 

“There  lies  my  romance,”  she  said  abruptly. 

As  if  regretting  her  frankness,  she  turned  quickly 
and  walked  into  the  house.  I  sat  down  on  the 


56 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


steps  and  propped  my  elbows  on  my  knees.  A 
profound  sense  of  melancholy  enveloped  me,  and 
the  tragic  death  of  the  young  Chinese  girl  filled  me 
with  sadness.  Twilight  fell  while  I  brooded.  One 
by  one  the  stars  came  out,  and  each  one  made  me 
lonelier  than  before.  Then  Edward  came. 

“What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Wilhelmina?”  he 
asked.  “You  look  as  if  some  one  had  hurt  you.” 

I  looked  up  at  him  gratefully.  I  was  thankful 
for  his  mere  presence. 

“Life  in  general  hurts,  doesn’t  it?”  I  answered. 
“Everything  goes  wrong.  All  love  is  wasted  and 
lost.” 

I  recounted  the  events  of  the  afternoon,  shivering 
a  little  as  I  retold  the  story. 

“I  believe  you  are  cold,”  Edward  exclaimed. 
“Put  this  on.” 

He  wrapped  the  coat  which  he  had  been  carrying 
over  his  arm  around  my  shoulders.  “You  don’t 
even  know  how  to  take  care  of  yourself.  You  need 
a  man  to  look  after  you.  The  trouble  with  you 
modern  women  is  that  you  are  all  sensitiveness  and 
no  strength,  no  endurance,  no  robust  optimism.  A 
man  knows  it  will  all  come  out  right,  for  he  is  so 
delightfully  conceited  that  he  trusts  his  own  powers 
to  right  the  whole  world.” 

Edward  seated  himself  beside  me  and  shamelessly 
put  his  arm  around  me.  The  strength  of  it  com¬ 
forted  me,  and  I  dropped  against  him,  my  head  on 
his  shoulder.  The  words  of  the  wise  old  psalmist 
came  to  my  mind  :  “A  man  shall  be  as  the  shadow  of 
a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land.” 


VII 


THE  BUSINESS  OF  LIFE 


WE  will  have  to  hurry  if  we  expect  to  be 
ready  by  eleven  o’clock,”  said  Doctor 
Donnellon,  as  we  started  across  the 
compound  after  breakfast  to  the  hospital.  “The 
carriage  is  coming  at  that  hour.” 

“I’ll  begin  the  dressings  right  away,”  I  answered. 
“I  am  quite  eager  to  see  what  a  Chinese  wedding 
feast  is  like.” 

“This  will  be  a  modified  festival  on  our  account,” 
replied  Doctor  Donnellon.  “Nevertheless  it  will 
give  you  some  idea  of  the  Chinese  customs.” 

At  the  hospital  we  parted,  Doctor  Donnellon  to 
make  medical  rounds,  and  I  to  do  the  surgical 
dressings.  One  of  the  head  nurses  was  also  invited 
to  the  feast,  as  the  old  lady  whose  son  was  being 
married  had  been  treated  in  the  hospital.  They 
were  a  very  modern  family.  The  old  dowager 
sent  her  daughters-in-lawr  to  the  hospital  for  their 
babies. 

At  eleven  o’clock  Doctor  Donnellon  and  I  were 
dressed  and  ready.  I  had  consulted  Doctor 
Donnellon  as  to  what  I  should  wear  and  was 
accordingly  dressed  in  shirt  waist  and  skirt.  She 
wore  her  brown  fur  coat  and  cap. 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


58 


“Probably  we  shall  have  to  wait  an  hour  or  so 
before  the  carriage  comes.  Chinese  have  no  idea 
of  time,”  said  Doctor  Donnellon,  settling  herself  at 
her  desk.  “A  Chinese  feast  is  a  reluctant  duty 
for  me.” 

“Oh,  I  think  it  will  be  quite  exciting,”  I  answered. 

“It’s  all  very  well  for  you,”  Doctor  Donnellon 
replied.  “You  are  new  and  fresh.  Even  managing 
chopsticks  will  amuse  you.  But  Chinese  feasts  are 
old  stories  to  me.  Wait  till  you  have  tried  it,  three 
hours  at  table  with  Chinese  women,  and  no  real 
conversation  at  all ;  besides  that,  there  will  be  at 
least  thirty  dishes  to  sample.  Let  me  warn  you,  child, 
do  be  careful.  Choose  what  you  eat  and  only  eat  a 
little.  The  cooking  is  savory,  and  most  foreigners 
are  apt  to  overeat.” 

“I’m  glad  I  don’t  know  much  Chinese,”  I  said. 
“I  will  only  have  to  smile  and  eat,  and  eat  and 
smile.” 

“As  a  continuous  performance,  that  is  not  as 
easy  as  you  think,”  said  Doctor  Donnellon. 

Mio-Kung  announced  the  arrival  of  the  carriage. 
The  eldest  daughter-in-law,  mother  of  three  sons,  had 
come  in  a  ricksha  to  escort  us.  It  was  then  almost 
twelve,  and  we  still  had  to  wait  while  A-doo  finished 
dressing.  When  she  joined  us,  I  was  astonished  at 
her  fine  appearance.  She  was  dressed  in  plum- 
colored  satin  and  wore  a  quantity  of  jewelry  —  two 
gold  rings,  a  beautiful  jade  ring,  and  a  long  jade 
hairpin.  A-doo  and  the  daughter-in-law  rode  in 
rickshas,  while  we  rode  in  the  carriage.  I  had  hardly 
recognized  the  daughter-in-law  in  her  best  clothes 


THE  BUSINESS  OF  LIFE 


59 


of  black  satin  lined  with  turquoise  blue,  and  her 
many  gold  bracelets  and  pearl  ornaments.  The 
carriage  crossed  Nanking  Road,  drove  around  the 
Race  Course,  and  took  the  road  to  the  Native 
City. 

“ I  had  no  idea  they  lived  so  far  away,”  exclaimed 
Doctor  Donnellon.  “I  imagined  they  were  just 
around  the  corner.” 

‘‘I  thought  there  were  no  carriage  roads  in  the 
Native  City,”  I  said.  “The  other  day  we  saw 
nothing  but  alleys.” 

“These  horse  roads  are  new  and  have  been  cut 
through  since  the  Revolution,”  answered  Doctor 
Donnellon.  “When  I  first  came  out,  a  carriage  in 
the  Native  City  was  an  unheard-of  thing.” 

We  entered  by  the  New  North  Gate  cut  through 
the  wall  a  year  ago.  A  three-storied  temple  with 
ancient  casement  windows  of  leaded  glass  clung  to 
the  inner  side  of  the  wall.  The  road,  though  wide 
enough  for  our  small  coup£,  barely  allowed  a  ricksha 
to  squeeze  past  us,  while  it  would  have  been  quite 
impossible  to  turn  or  to  pass  another  vehicle.  A 
footman  ran  at  the  horse’s  head  shouting  and  clear¬ 
ing  the  way,  “The  horse  carriage  comes,  The  horse 
carriage  comes.”  As  we  penetrated  the  city  more 
deeply  the  road  narrowed  till  the  wheels  of  the 
wagon  scraped  the  walls  of  the  houses.  Suddenly 
we  were  stopped  by  a  Chinese  policeman.  The 
footman  and  coachman  and  policeman  had  a  heated 
conversation,  which  ended  by  the  footman  dashing 
on  ahead. 

“I  suppose  that  driving  through  this  street  is 


6o 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


against  ‘Old  Custom’,”  said  Doctor  Donnellon, 
“and  the  footman  has  gone  on  ahead  to  collect 
enough  money  to  bribe  the  policeman.” 

We  became  at  once  the  center  of  a  closely  packed 
crowd,  very  good-natured  and  laughing  but  intensely 
personal.  Men  with  youngsters  perched  astride 
their  shoulders,  women  with  baskets  of  food,  and 
numberless  children  clustered  around  us. 

‘‘See,  the  outside-kingdom  woman  wears  her 
clothes  inside  out,”  laughed  a  young  girl,  pointing 
at  Doctor  Donnellon’s  coat  which  was  made  with  the 
fur  on  the  outside. 

‘‘She,  I  think,  is  the  Elder  Sister,”  continued  the 
loquacious  one,  “while  the  small  one  is  the  Little 
Sister.  The  Little  Sister  has  no  earrings,  but  she 
has  round  pieces  of  gold  in  two  teeth.  I  myself 
prefer  gold  in  the  ears.” 

“What  a  pity  she  has  such  a  very  big  nose,” 
remarked  an  old  woman,  peering  at  me  over  the 
young  girl’s  shoulder.  “I  am  sure  her  feet  are 
large  too.” 

“Really,  this  is  awful,  Doctor  Donnellon,”  I  said 
desperately.  “I  never  imagined  I  would  mind  it, 
but  it  grows  embarrassing  after  a  while.  You  never 
know  what  they  will  say  next.” 

“They  say  anything  they  please,”  said  Doctor 
Donnellon,  “and  it  never  ends.  They  keep  on  and 
on,  and  it  grows  worse  and  worse.  At  a  new  station 
in  the  interior,  the  Chinese  just  swarm  over  the 
mission-house  like  ants  in  an  ant  hill.  They  line 
the  dining  room  wall  to  watch  the  missionaries  eat, 
they  enter  the  bedroom  to  see  the  quality  of  the  beds, 


THE  BUSINESS  OF  LIFE 


61 


and  they  often  try  to  watch  the  novel  and  dangerous 
process  of  bathing,  immersed  in  a  tub.” 

Doctor  Donnellon  leaned  out  of  the  window  and 
began  conversing  with  the  crowd. 

“From  where  has  she  such  clear  words?”  I  heard 
the  old  hag  exclaim.  “Her  doctrine  is  truly  good  to 
hear,  but  her  clothes  are  very  ugly  to  look  upon.” 

Her  attitude  astounded  me.  Would  I  ever  be 
able  to  foretell  the  Oriental  point  of  view? 

After  a  half  an  hour  or  so  of  waiting,  the  footman 
returned,  the  policeman  was  appropriately  mollified, 
and  we  proceeded  unmolested  on  our  way. 

The  bridegroom’s  house  opened  directly  upon  the 
street.  A  wide  gate  in  a  high  wall  led  into  a  shallow 
courtyard  which  was  separated  by  a  few  steps  from 
the  main  guest  hall.  This  was  a  high,  raftered  room 
whose  walls  were  hung  from  ceiling  to  floor  with 
banners  of  scarlet  satin.  Heavily  embroidered  gold 
characters  ran  up  and  down  the  banners,  proclaiming 
“Long  Life  and  Happiness”  and  many  other 
blessings  in  the  shape  of  riches  and  sons.  In  the 
center  of  the  wall  facing  the  door  stood  a  polished 
redwood  table  on  which  were  placed  the  ceremonial 
candles  and  offerings.  The  seats  of  honor  for  the 
Chinese  guests  were  placed  along  the  sides  of  the 
room,  a  table  and  a  chair,  a  table  and  a  chair,  in  strict 
and  orderly  sequence  against  the  wall .  Each  table  and 
chair  was  covered  with  a  cloth  of  crimson  satin  also 
heavily  embroidered  with  threads  of  gold  and  black. 
The  side  of  the  room  facing  the  court  was  entirely  open. 
Four  slender,  round  columns  supported  the  roof. 
Dwarf  peach  trees  and  mimosas  in  ancient  porcelain 


62 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


flower  bowls  of  blue  and  white  stood  in  the  corners 
of  the  court  by  the  shallow  steps.  Standing  on  the 
threshold  to  greet  us  was  the  sprightly  old  dowager 
and  her  four  handsome  sons,  all  sumptuously  dressed 
in  brocaded  Chinese  satins. 

It  was  a  scene  of  bygone  days  of  splendor,  of  the 
ancient,  clannish,  patriarchal  life  of  the  forgotten 
past.  The  gorgeousness  and  harmony  of  the  picture 
took  my  breath  away.  I  could  not  have  imagined 
anything  more  effective  than  that  wide,  open  room, 
with  its  high,  sloping  ceiling  and  its  riotous  crimson 
and  gold  walls. 

Doctor  Donnellon  looked  at  me  triumphantly. 

“I  thought  you  would  be  pleasantly  surprised,” 
she  said.  “Wait  till  you  have  seen  the  bride’s 
trousseau.” 

A  host  of  household  servants,  coolies,  amahs,  and 
children,  were  constantly  coming  and  going.  We 
were  ushered  into  a  small  reception  room  to  rest 
and  refresh  ourselves.  Sweetmeats  were  placed  be¬ 
fore  us  —  sugared  lotus  buds,  and  watermelon  seeds, 
and  puffed  rice  candy.  We  sat  about  the  little, 
marble-topped  tables  and  nibbled  the  sweets  and 
made  the  conventional  inquiries.  Then  we  were 
led  to  the  bride’s  apartment.  She  had  arrived  the 
night  before. 

We  entered  a  long  room  in  which  a  young  girl  was 
standing  alone.  One  arm  hung  at  her  side,  and  the 
other  was  stretched  up  along  the  parted  curtains  of 
the  nuptial  bed.  She  was  immaculately  dressed  and 
rouged  and  bejeweled.  Her  oval  face,  with  its  high 
cheek  bones  and  low-bridged  nose,  gave  that  illusive, 


THE  BUSINESS  OF  LIFE 


63 


Oriental  appearance  of  calm.  She  gave  me  an  im¬ 
pression  of  immense  isolation.  Yet  she  was  utterly 
composed  and  knew  exactly  what  was  expected  of 
her  in  the  traditional  position  of  bride.  The  dowager 
mother-in-law,  the  three  other  daughters-in-law, 
and  numerous  young  granddaughters  accompanied 
us. 

“Don’t  be  afraid  to  look  at  everything.  Touch 
and  examine  things,”  Doctor  Donnellon  said  to  me. 
“They  will  be  disappointed  if  you  don’t.  Think  of 
what  your  very  best  manners  are  and  then  do  the 
opposite.” 

Thus  emboldened,  I  turned  towards  the  bed 
where  the  young  girl  was  still  standing  immobile. 
It  was  of  deeply  glowing  redwood,  lovely  as  the 
loveliest  mahogany,  carved  and  hung  with  silken 
curtains.  On  one  side  the  curtains  were  looped 
back  with  heavy  silver  chains,  the  hook  shaped  like 
a  hand  with  clasping  fingers.  Many  bright-colored 
balls  and  fantastic  ornaments  hung  from  the  curtain 
rods. 

“What  a  comfort  it  is  to  be  so  frankly  mate¬ 
rialistic,”  Doctor  Donnellon  said,  “and  not  to  have 
to  pretend  one  only  cares  for  the  giver  of  a  present.” 

“Yes,  it  is  simpler,”  I  laughed. 

The  old  mother-in-law  proudly  displayed  the  bride 
to  us,  her  ruddy  cheeks,  her  health,  her  many  pearl 
ornaments  and  gold  bracelets.  The  bride,  immobile 
and  silent,  suffered  it  all.  Along  one  side  of  the  wall 
from  floor  to  ceiling  were  piled  her  trunks,  handsome 
boxes  of  polished  wood  with  hoops  of  beaten  brass. 
Over  each  keyhole  was  a  beaten  brass  butterfly 


64 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


with  spread  wings  whose  body  moved  aside  to  dis¬ 
close  the  keyhole. 

“What  is  the  meaning  of  the  shiny  balls  hanging 
along  the  bed?”  I  asked. 

“They  are  all  best  wishes  for  the  safe  arrival  of 
sons,”  explained  Doctor  Donnellon.  “  I  suppose  you 
think  it  is  a  little  early  to  think  about  sons,  but  sons 
are  the  one  thought  and  aim  of  a  Chinese  marriage. 
The  bride  knows  it  as  well  as  the  groom.  Getting 
married  and  having  children  is  the  business  of  life, 
and  they  set  about  it  in  a  most  business-like,  matter- 
of-fact  way.” 

Of  course  I  had  known  all  this  before,  but  I 
realized  it  more  acutely  when  I  saw  the  young  bride 
standing  by  the  bedside  in  the  house  of  her  husband. 
I  felt  a  sudden  revulsion  against  this  brutal  Chinese 
attitude.  Materialists,  sensualists,  I  called  them  to 
myself.  When  we  left  the  bride’s  room,  she  was 
standing  again  by  the  curtains  of  the  bed,  gazing 
after  us  with  her  inscrutable  eyes.  During  our 
entire  visit  she  had  not  spoken  a  word.  Was  she 
merely  a  living  image,  a  symbol  of  an  ancient  rite, 
or  a  young  girl,  aquiver  with  life,  curbed  by  the 
iron  custom  of  years  into  that  attitude  of  strange 
impassivity !  I  wanted  to  speak  to  her  alone,  to 
touch  her  hand,  to  make  her  smile.  I  wondered 
if  endearments  and  caresses  would  change  her  back 
into  something  quick  and  responsive,  or  would  she 
always  remain  so,  silent,  motionless,  gazing  at  us 
with  her  soft  brown  eyes. 

Of  course  I  never  spoke  to  her.  I  had  no  chance. 
The  old  dowager  carried  us  off  to  show  us  the  rest 


THE  BUSINESS  OF  LIFE 


65 


of  the  house,  and  she  was  left  there  alone,  standing 
by  her  bedside,  in  the  quiet  of  the  empty  room, 
waiting  till  the  next  visitors  came  to  look  her  over. 
She  haunted  me.  While  I  looked  at  all  the  beautiful 
things  that  were  shown  to  us,  I  kept  on  thinking  of 
her.  How  strange  are  our  fates !  If  she  bore  sons 
she  would  be  happy !  There  she  waited  the  test 
of  life.  Did  she  think  ?  Did  she  feel  ?  Or  was 
she  concentrated  in  merely  waiting?  I  never  saw 
her  again. 

At  last  the  feast  began.  The  old  dowager  and 
her  two  eldest  daughters-in-law  ate  with  us.  The 
men  ate  in  a  room  apart. 

“Where  are  the  bride  and  groom  ?”  I  asked. 

“For  one  month  they  have  the  privilege  of  eating 
alone  together  in  the  bride’s  apartment,”  the  dowager 
replied. 

My  mind  leaped  upon  that  reply.  What  would 
the  young  girl  find  to  say  to  this  man  she  had  never 
seen  before,  she  who  had  never  spoken  to  a  man  alone 
in  her  whole  life  ?  How  mysterious  everyday  events 
are ! 

“What  beautiful  ivory  chopsticks,”  Doctor 
Donnellon  exclaimed,  much  to  the  delight  of  the 
family,  who  wished  everything  to  be  effusively 
admired.  I  watched  Doctor  Donnellon  enviously. 
She  used  her  chopsticks  as  if  born  to  them.  Mine 
wobbled  around  hopelessly  in  my  fingers.  Fore¬ 
seeing  such  a  contingency,  a  silver  fork,  made  like 
a  hairpin  with  an  extra  prong  for  a  handle,  was  given 
to  me.  I  speared  the  morsels  on  it  and  nibbled  from 
them  as  daintily  as  I  could. 


66 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


The  feast  was  indeed  marvelous.  All  the  well- 
known  dishes  were  served  —  the  meat  and  vegetable 
salad  called  “The  Mandarin’s  Hat”,  “The  Eight 
Precious  Pudding”  with  its  dates  and  raisins,  in¬ 
numerable  small  omelets,  meat  patties,  pigeon  eggs, 
wild  duck,  fried  batter,  and  last  of  all  rice  and  tea. 

“I  really  and  truly  can’t  eat  another  mouthful,” 
I  said  in  despair  to  Doctor  Donnellon. 

“Never  mind,  you  don’t  have  to  eat  the  rice,” 
she  said.  “It  is  quite  polite  to  leave  it,  as  that 
shows  that  the  feast  has  been  so  ample  and  delicious 
that  you  do  not  need  the  rice  to  complete  your  meal.” 

As  a  sign  that  she  had  finished,  Doctor  Donnellon 
waved  her  chopsticks  in  the  air  and  laid  them  down 
across  her  bowl  of  rice,  uttering  the  customary 
phrase  of  Chinese  etiquette,  “Use  slowly”,  to  the 
rest.  The  old  dowager  lifted  the  chopsticks  from 
across  the  bowl  and  placed  them  on  the  table  as  a 
sign  that  Doctor  Donnellon  was  urged  to  eat  more, 
saying  insistently,  “Eat  plenty.”  After  this  cere¬ 
mony  had  been  performed  by  each  member  of  the 
party  and  the  tea  drunk,  the  feast  was  over.  The 
family,  the  children,  and  their  servitors  all  crowded 
into  the  great  guest  hall  to  see  us  off.  The  gate 
man  bolted  the  door  in  the  wall  behind  us,  shutting 
in  the  splendor  of  the  crimson-hung  room,  and  we 
were  again  in  the  narrow,  muddy  alley  in  the  Chinese 
City.  As  we  passed  along  by  the  windowless  walls, 
I  wondered  what  strange  spectacles  were  to  be  seen 
behind  their  jealous  doors,  and  I  fell  to  dreaming 
about  the  hidden,  mysterious  life  going  on  so  remorse¬ 
lessly  and  stealthily  behind  those  closed  gates. 


THE  BUSINESS  OF  LIFE 


67 


Doctor  Donnellon  roused  me  by  a  sigh  of  relief. 
“  I’m  glad  it’s  over,”  she  said.  “  It  is  a  tremendous 
strain  to  be  polite  according  to  Chinese  etiquette 
for  four  hours.” 

On  Nanking  Road  I  saw  Edward  striding  along 
briskly  towards  St.  Margaret’s  hospital. 

“  If  you  don’t  mind,  I’ll  get  out  and  walk  with  Mr. 
Stevens,”  I  said.  “I  feel  like  a  stuffed  pig.”  A 
few  minutes  later  Edward  and  I  were  swinging  along 
together,  and  I  had  launched  into  a  full  description 
of  the  feast. 

‘‘I  wish  I  had  been  there,”  exclaimed  Edward 
enthusiastically.  “They  must  be  a  pretty  rich  old 
family.  I  delight  in  the  frank  pleasure  these  old 
codgers  take  in  their  possessions.  They  are  far 
more  sincere  than  we.” 

“I  didn’t  feel  that  way,”  I  said.  “I  was  op¬ 
pressed,  weighed  down,  by  their  evident  worship 
of  things.  Their  accumulation  of  objects  stifled 
me. 

Edward  smiled  one  of  his  wise  smiles,  and  I  felt 
myself  blushing,  for  I  had  spoken  with  some  heat. 

“You  are  betraying  one  of  your  handicaps  in 
life,  Wilhelmina,”  he  said,  looking  at  me  with  ten¬ 
der  eyes,  “your  spirituality.  Spirituality  is,  in  all 
truth,  ‘other  worldliness.’  People  with  a  love  for 
things  have  a  firmer  grip  on  the  life  of  this  everyday 
world.  Now,  take  me,  for  instance ;  I  would  make 
a  good  anchor  for  you.” 


VIII 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  COOLIES 


YOU  might  as  well  marry  Edward  Stevens 
at  once  and  be  done  with  it,”  said  Doc¬ 
tor  Donnellon. 

We  had  made  evening  rounds  together  and  were 
standing  on  the  wide  second-story  verandah  over¬ 
looking  the  compound.  Behind  us  on  the  porch  was 
a  row  of  beds  containing  the  cases  of  bone  and  gland 
tuberculosis.  Before  us  lay  the  brief  breathing  space 
of  the  compound’s  grass  plot,  walled  in  by  a  mass  of 
Chinese  houses.  Their  peaked  roofs  cut  across  the 
purple,  silver-spangled  sky  in  fantastic  outlines.  As 
we  stood  by  the  railing  listening,  I  heard  the  palm 
leaves  softly  rattling  against  each  other.  From  a 
near-by  alley  came  the  weird,  insistent  song  of  a 
“carry  coolie”: 


Flung  out  into  the  night  the  notes  dominated  the  air. 

“Well,  why  don’t  you?”  Doctor  Donnellon 
repeated.  ' 

Without  turning  my  head,  I  answered.  “I  don’t 
want  to  marry  at  all.  It’s  quite  another  thing  for  a 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  COOLIES 


69 


man.  It  is  no  deprivation,  no  loss,  merely  a  gratifica¬ 
tion,  and  an  expansion.  For  women  it  is  different. 
Marriage  is  the  fundamental  self-sacrifice.  It  means 
the  giving  up  of  conscious,  individual  life ;  it  means 
wilfully  stepping  out  of  the  wild,  up-rushing,  tingling 
current  of  modern  activity  to  merge  oneself  into  the 
slow  growth  of  the  race.  I  can’t  do  it,”  I  cried. 

1  won  t. 

“Marriage  is  the  function  of  woman,”  insisted 
Doctor  Donnellon. 

“Not  of  all  women,”  I  objected. 

“Making  babies  is  their  one  perfect  art,”  she  added 
softly. 

“If  more  women  refused  to  expend  all  their 
vitality  in  making  babies,  they  would  have  enough 
left  for  art,”  I  retorted. 

“Is  art  more  necessary  than  babies?”  Doctor 
Donnellon  asked.  “Is  any  work  of  art  as  perfectly 
beautiful  as  a  new-born  babe?” 

We  stood  in  the  silence  of  the  evening.  Not  a 
sound  of  civilization  struck  our  ears.  Then,  the 
coolie’s  cry,  which  had  ceased  a  moment,  began 
again.  I  listened  till  it  grew  fainter  and  fainter  in 
the  distance.  His  was  the  song  of  the  burden 
bearers. 

“Do  you  remember  Wadsworth’s  Lucy  poems?” 
I  asked,  suddenly  turning  to  Doctor  Donnellon. 
“‘Whirled  round  with  rocks  and  stones  and  all 
inanimate,  insensate  things  in  the  mighty  cosmic 
circle.’  I  think  of  marriage  like  that.” 

Doctor  Donnellon  laid  her  hand  on  my  shoulder 
and  stooped  to  peer  into  my  eyes. 


70 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“Try  it,  child,”  she  said.  “We  are  all  torn  by 
the  ineradicable  desire.” 

As  I  followed  her  silently  down  the  ward,  I  recalled 
my  surprise  when  I  first  saw  a  ward  in  a  Chinese 
hospital.  Whiteness  had  grown  so  identical  with 
cleanliness  in  my  mind  that  the  many-colored 
ward  startled  me  —  black  bedsteads,  blue  quilts, 
pink  walls.  To-night,  this  color  scheme  seemed 
to  me  the  most  natural  in  the  world.  Besides,  I 
liked  it.  I  found  myself  liking  everything  in  the 
hospital  with  a  strange  intensity,  as  one  does  who 
will  soon  leave. 

About  a  week  later  Edward  and  I  went  off  for  a 
long  walk  through  the  winding  paths  between  the 
fields.  The  rape  was  ripe  and  covered  the  whole 
earth  with  its  golden  blossoms  like  a  cloak. 

“You  ought  to  get  out  more  often,  Wilhelmina,” 
said  Edward.  “You  are  very  pale.” 

“You  mean  ‘as  sallow  as  a  duck’s  foot’,”  I 
answered,  laughing.  “But  really  I  get  out  at  least 
one  afternoon  a  week,  which  is  more  than  I  could 
be  sure  of  at  home.” 

You  can’t  compare  America  with  China,”  Edward 
answered.  “In  America,  the  air  itself  is  electricity. 
It’s  a  penalty  to  loaf.  Here,  it’s  an  insidious  leth¬ 
argy  that  makes  all  work  double  the  effort.  No  one 
can  work  here  as  he  does  at  home.  It’s  pre¬ 
posterous.” 

“No  one  does,”  I  answered  wistfully,  remember¬ 
ing  the  merry  days  when  I  too  was  a  part  of  the 
giddy  whirl. 

“Americans  are  the  only  busy  people  on  the  earth,” 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  COOLIES 


n 


continued  Edward,  well  launched  on  a  favorite 
hobby  of  his. 

I  walked  ahead  on  the  narrow  footpath  with 
Edward  close  behind  me.  I  heard  his  voice  dreamily, 
hardly  noticing  the  words,  or  their  import.  My 
eyes  wandered  idly  over  the  wide  plains,  studded 
here  and  there  with  a  low  hut  encircled  in  black 
cypresses.  At  one  small  group  of  houses  we  found 
the  women  out  hanging  up  cotton  thread  to  dry. 
They  stretched  it  on  a  series  of  T-shaped  sticks, 
several  of  them  working  together.  The  children, 
sociable  and  jolly,  played  around  their  skirts. 
Little  streams  meandered  by,  and  we  crossed  them 
on  ancient,  primeval  stepping-stones  made  of  great 
slabs,  rude  and  strong  enough  for  the  days  of  the 
Pharaohs.  Now  and  then  a  wolfish  cur  ran  out  at 
us.  The  chimneys  of  Shanghai  were  but  a  smudge 
on  the  horizon.  We  were  plunged  in  hoary  antiq¬ 
uity.  It  was  not  only  due  to  the  different  land¬ 
scape  and  the  clothes  and  occupations  of  the  people, 
but  more  than  anything  else  it  was  due  to  the  look 
on  their  faces.  They  were  utterly  different,  alien, 
soaked  with  the  life  of  the  earth,  quick  with  the 
change  of  the  seasons,  strangely  happy.  I  looked 
at  them  wonderingly,  marvelling  at  their  happiness. 
So  far  apart  were  we  thrust  by  the  centuries  that 
our  minds  could  only  touch  at  the  elemental  points 
of  bodily  sensations.  I  wondered  if  I  too  could 
drop  back,  could  forget  the  present  and  touch,  as 
they  did,  the  strange,  illusive,  subde  forces  of 
nature.  Edward’s  voice  startled  me  out  of  my  day 
dream. 


72 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“Here  we  are  at  the  Creek,”  he  said.  “Shall  we 
hail  a  boat  and  float  down  instead  of  walking  back  ?” 

We  had  emerged  at  a  ferry  landing.  Smooth 
stone  slabs  supported  on  wooden  piles  led  from  the 
high  bank  to  the  water.  I  suddenly  felt  tired. 

“Yes,”  I  answered  simply. 

“Sit  here,”  said  Edward,  folding  his  coat  into  a 
cushion.  “We  may  not  be  able  to  get  a  boat  at 
once  —  one  clean  enough,  I  mean.” 

He  ran  down  the  steps  to  parley  with  the  ferryman. 
From  the  rape  fields  behind  me  came  the  faint, 
distant  “song  of  the  coolies”,  growing  clearer  and 
sharper.  Soon  five  men  emerged  from  the  path, 
carrying  baskets  of  cabbage  slung  on  bamboo  poles 
across  their  shoulders.  I  watched  them  file  down 
the  stone  stairway  and  step  carefully  on  to  the 
ferry.  The  ferryman,  a  boy  of  about  sixteen,  poled 
them  across.  A  cool  draft  of  air  was  wafted  up 
from  the  yellow-brown  water.  Beside  me  was  a 
battered  temple  in  which  sat  a  forsaken  Buddha  in 
his  attitude  of  eternal  calm,  with  knees  crossed  and 
smiling  vermilion  lips.  A  pervasive  mystery  exuded 
from  this  decayed  temple,  from  the  swaying  rape 
seed,  and  the  swiftly  flowing  river.  For  ages  and 
eons  of  time  it  had  been  the  same.  I  seemed  to 
sink  into  this  universal  life,  to  be  swallowed  up  by  it. 

“Here  comes  a  cleanish  junk,”  called  Edward. 

I  ran  down  the  flight  of  stone  slabs  and  stepped 
on  the  ferry.  It  poled  out  to  midstream  and  drew 
up  alongside  the  chosen  junk,  and  we  easily  jumped 
across.  The  boat,  long  and  narrow,  was  taking 
garden  truck  to  the  Shanghai  markets.  The 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  COOLIES 


73 


vegetables  were  piled  in  a  sunken  cradle  in  the 
center  of  the  boat.  Two  men  were  working  side  by 
side  at  the  long  stern  oar. 

“This  is  much  cleaner  than  most  of  them,”  said 
Edward.  “We  were  lucky.” 

I  made  no  reply;  I  was  tongue-tied.  In  silence 
we  seated  ourselves  in  the  prow  of  the  boat.  I  felt 
more  and  more  unreal,  as  I  watched  the  house  boats 
tugged  up  stream,  each  boat  accommodating  one  or 
two  families  in  its  one  small  cabin.  The  faces 
that  looked  out  at  me  were  strange,  like  the  faces 
seen  in  a  fantastic  nightmare. 

“What’s  the  matter,  Wilhelmina?”  Edward  asked- 
“I  believe  you  are  completely  tired  out.  In  the 
name  of  thunder,  why  won’t  you  marry  me?  I 
would  make  of  my  love  for  you  a  wall  to  protect 
you  from  all  weariness  and  sorrow.  Why  won’t 
you  understand?” 

Edward  leaned  closer,  and  his  face  too  became  as 
one  of  the  dream  faces. 

“It’s  you  who  don’t  understand,”  I  whispered. 

The  junk  swept  around  a  bend  in  the  stream.  The 
link  with  the  past  was  snapped,  and  the  present, 
with  all  its  immediate  urgency,  rushed  upon  us. 
Just  as  we  turned  the  corner  we  saw  a  house  boat 
with  a  pretentious,  enclosed  cabin  slowly  and 
sedately  turn  turtle. 

Our  rowers  dropped  their  oars  and  rushed  for¬ 
ward,  shrieking  wildly.  Several  other  boats  began 
to  float  around  aimlessly,  while  their  occupants 
screamed  and  yelled.  In  the  midst  of  the  stream  the 
overturned,  flat-bottomed  boat  floated  serenely.  No 


74 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


sound  came  from  within  it.  I  wondered  if  the  im¬ 
prisoned  family  were  screaming. 

“Make  the  idiots  stop  yelling,  can’t  you,  Wilhel- 
mina,”  said  Edward.  “We  must  get  there  at  once 
and  chop  those  fellows  out.’’ 

“Won’t  the  boat  turn  back?”  I  asked. 

“It  can’t,”  Edward  answered.  “The  roof  must 
be  caught  in  the  muddy  bottom.” 

My  lethargy  dropped  away.  I  shouted  at  the 
coolies  in  dialect,  and  they  pushed  our  boat  beside 
the  upturned  hulk.  From  a  second  junk  Edward 
got  an  ax.  Leaping  upon  the  boat,  he  began  to 
chop  at  the  wooden  planks.  Up  and  down  the  creek, 
the  hollow  sound  of  the  falling  ax  echoed  and  re¬ 
echoed. 

“Confound  the  wood,”  Edward  growled.  “It 
must  be  teak.  It’s  as  hard  as  stone.” 

Two  Chinese  sprang  across  from  a  junk  that  had 
just  arrived,  they  and  Edward  took  turns  chopping. 
Their  faces  grew  red  from  exertion,  and  streams  of 
water  dripped  from  their  hands. 

“We’ll  be  too  late,”  Edward  cried.  “She’s  filling. 
I  feel  her  settle.” 

As  if  to  answer  his  fear,  a  cry  penetrated  the 
wooden  walls  of  the  cabin  and  floated  up  through 
the  water.  The  next  crash  of  Edward’s  ax  cut 
an  air  hole  through.  After  the  first  opening  was 
made,  the  wood  splintered  in  all  directions.  Edward 
plunged  in  his  hand  and  caught  a  Chinaman’s  arm. 
While  the  other  men  continued  ripping  and  tearing 
at  the  planks,  Edward  pulled  the  fellow  out  through 
the  hole.  I  shall  never  forget  the  sheer  fright 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  COOLIES 


75 


depicted  on  his  face  —  eyes  rolled  upwards,  lips 
blue,  and  every  inch  of  hair  on  his  close-cropped  head 
standing  erect. 

“How  many  more  inside?”  I  called  to  him. 

He  held  up  two  fingers. 

No  sooner  were  his  feet  out  of  the  hole  than  a 
second  Chinese  face  appeared.  This  man  was  fat. 
After  he  had  poked  his  head  and  shoulders  through, 
the  rest  of  his  body  stuck.  At  the  sight,  the 
spectators  began  to  laugh  uncontrollably.  Edward 
threw  down  his  ax  and  held  his  sides  with  laughter. 
The  fat,  terrified  man,  hanging  by  his  armpits,  made 
a  ridiculous  figure.  Suddenly  I  remembered  there 
was  a  third  inside. 

“Hurry,  Edward,  pull  him  out,”  I  cried.  “There 
is  another  one  inside.  Don’t  waste  so  much  time. 
The  last  one  will  drown.” 

The  two  Chinese  began  tugging  at  the  out¬ 
stretched  arms  of  the  fat  man.  A  sound  of  loud 
ripping  and  tearing  of  cloth  rewarded  their  efforts. 
The  next  instant  they  jerked  out  a  comparatively 
thin  man,  leaving  his  cocoon  of  padded  garments 
stuck  like  a  cork  in  the  opening.  He  promptly 
collapsed  upon  the  roof.  Edward  and  I  tore  away 
his  clothes  and  peered  into  the  hole.  At  first  we 
could  distinguish  nothing,  but  as  our  eyes  grew 
accustomed  to  the  semi-darkness,  we  saw  that  about 
three  feet  of  air  space  remained  above  the  surface 
of  the  water.  Stools  and  tables  and  eating  bowls 
were  floating  about,  bobbing  against  each  other. 

“I  see  no  one,”  said  Edward,  drawing  back. 

1  ‘  How  many  inside  ?  ”  I  again  asked  the  rescued  men. 


76 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


Simultaneously  they  each  held  up  one  finger. 

“Must  ca tehee  one  piecee  woman,”  said  the  first. 

“Never  mind.  Belong  second  wife,”  added  the 
second. 

As  Edward  caught  their  meaning,  he  quickly  began 
taking  off  his  coat  and  shoes.  While  I  watched  him 
prepare  to  dive  into  that  submerged  room,  I  suddenly 
knew  that  I  loved  him,  and  the  knowledge  filled  me 
with  a  strange  terror  and  a  strange  pride. 

Edward  let  himself  down  feet  foremost.  A 
moment  his  fingers  clung  to  the  opening,  then  they 
too  disappeared,  and  I  heard  a  dull  splash  in  the 
cabin.  I  knelt  at  the  hole.  I  believe  some  one 
held  my  feet  to  prevent  my  falling  in.  I  stared  at 
the  heavy  darkness  till  my  eyes  blinked  with  tears. 
At  last,  when  I  could  scarcely  see,  I  realized  that 
Edward’s  head  had  appeared  at  the  surface  of  the 
water.  The  next  moment  he  raised  himself  shoulder 
high  and  dragged  up  the  form  of  an  unconscious 
woman. 

“I  can’t  lift  her,”  he  called.  “I  am  standing 
on  a  stool  on  a  table,  and  it’s  very  shaky.  Throw 
me  a  rope.  Quick.  I  am  afraid  she  is  too  far 
gone.  She  was  lying  on  the  bottom  covered  by 
the  bed.” 

“A  rope!  A  rope!”  I  called  to  the  Chinese.  In 
despair  I  wondered  where  I  could  find  a  rope  in  the 
middle  of  Soochow  Creek.  But  I  had  forgotten 
the  ways  of  the  river.  A  boy  shinned  up  the  mast 
of  the  next  boat  and  deftly  detached  the  tow  rope 
from  its  summit.  The  tow-man  on  the  shore 
stepped  out  of  his  harness,  and  in  a  second  a  long 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  COOLIES 


77 


strong  rope  was  ready.  The  men  lowered  an  end 
to  Edward. 

“Ready,  pull,”  he  called,  but  be  careful.  She  is 
unconscious.” 

When  the  men  had  drawn  the  woman  out,  I  too 
was  sure  she  was  dead.  But  “once  a  doctor,  always 
a  doctor.”  My  hypodermic  case,  as  usual,  was  in 
my  wrist  bag.  After  an  injection  I  began  artificial 
respiration.  Before  I  knew  it,  Edward  was  beside 
me,  helping  with  the  rhythmic,  swinging  motions  of 
her  arms.  I  was  oblivious  of  all  but  the  unconscious 
woman  lying  on  the  planks  of  the  upturned  boat. 
Her  face  was  immobile  and  pallid  as  a  death  mask, 
but  her  heart  was  still  beating.  Gradually  a 
faint  pink  tinge  spread  over  her  lips  and  finger  tips. 
Then  my  attention  relaxed,  and  I  suddenly  became 
conscious  that  our  boat  was  the  center  of  a  closely 
packed  flotilla  of  junks  from  which  hundreds  of 
bright  brown  eyes  scrutinized  us  with  interested 
curiosity.  Coolies,  with  their  burdens  resting  at 
their  feet,  were  ranged  along  both  banks.  In  the 
distance  the  song  of  approaching  coolies  grew  more 
and  more  distinct. 

Never  till  I  die  will  I  forget  that  song  of  the  coolies, 
monotonous,  insistent,  throbbing  with  a  hidden 
power,  the  song  of  the  burden  bearers  of  the  earth. 
At  that  moment  I  merged  myself  with  them. 

The  girl  drew  a  hesitating,  fluttering  breath.  The 
bystanders  gave  a  triumphant  shout.  I  straightened 
myself  and  walked  back  to  our  hired  boat.  Slowly 
the  impacted  mass  of  junks  wormed  itself  apart. 
Once  again  Edward  and  I,  sitting  on  the  prow  of  our 


78 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


boat,  drifted  down  stream  towards  Shanghai.  I 
was  tired  and  leaned  against  Edward’s  shoulder  in  an 
abandonment  of  content. 

“Do  you  love  me?”  he  murmured  into  my  ear. 

“I  don’t  know,”  I  answered.  “But  I  am  glad  it’s 
decided.  The  rest  doesn’t  matter.” 

Along  the  shore  path,  the  coolies  hurried  back  and 
forth,  carrying  their  ceaseless  burdens,  singing  ever 
the  same,  weird,  monotonous  song,  the  Song  of  the 
Burden  Bearers  of  the  East. 


IX 


THE  WARM  GRAVE 
OURTING  is  just  as  happy  a  time  for  a 


girl  in  China  as  anywhere  else  under  the 
sun.  All  the  world  seemed  to  aid  and  abet 


us.  If  Edward  so  much  as  called  for  afternoon 
tea,  as  soon  as  the  tea  was  drunk  everybody  would 
fade  away  from  the  room,  leaving  Edward  and  me 
together.  I  found  it  a  little  strange  at  first,  but  I 
must  confess  that  I  liked  it.  On  the  whole  it  was  an 
excellent  plan.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  world  were 
pushing  us  together  —  not  only  the  people,  Doctor 
Donnellon  and  Miss  Laurie,  but  all  the  inanimate 
Chinese  things  about  us. 

My  importance  was  greatly  heightened  in  the 
eyes  of  the  nurses.  “When  will  you  be  married?” 
I  was  asked  a  dozen  times  a  day.  I  always  said 
I  didn’t  know,  which  surprised  them  very  much. 
As  soon  as  a  Chinese  girl  is  betrothed,  her  mar¬ 
riage  month  is  set.  Once  I  heard  them  whisper¬ 
ing  among  themselves.  “Astonishing!  Is  it  not 
strange?  She  does  not  know  when  she  is  to  be 
married.” 

But  I  didn’t  want  to  know.  The  world  suited 
me  to  a  T.  I  didn’t  want  it  changed  one  iota. 
Loving  Edward  seemed  to  make  a  great  difference 


8o 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


in  me.  It  seemed  somehow  to  make  me  more  a 
part  of  the  rest  of  the  world,  even  more  a  part  of 
China,  as  if  I  had  suddenly  found  a  key  to  under¬ 
standing.  Before  I  had  only  looked  through  a 
peephole  at  life ;  now  I  was  inside. 

One  evening  Edward  came  to  take  me  driving  in 
one  of  the  small  Chinese  victorias.  It  was  well 
along  in  June,  and  the  days  and  nights  were  both 
warm.  All  our  woolen  things  had  been  hung  out 
on  the  second-story  porch  long  ago  to  sun,  before 
the  willow  fuzz  began  to  fly,  and  then  had  been 
carefully  put  away  in  camphorwood  or  tin  boxes 
for  the  summer.  Even  in  the  evenings  we  only 
needed  a  light  silk  scarf.  The  Chinese  men  had 
discarded  all  semblance  of  upper  garments  for  the 
summer,  and  the  women  on  the  street  wore  trans¬ 
parent  gauze  skirts  over  their  thin  summer  trousers. 
Punkahs  and  electric  fans  waved  during  meals,  and 
at  night  we  slept  out  on  the  upstairs  porch  on  bam¬ 
boo  couches  without  any  covers.  In  the  daytime 
we  rested  when  work  was  over.  Only  at  night  could 
one  enjoy  motion. 

I  never  get  over  a  feeling  of  opulence  when  I  lean 
back  in  a  victoria,  no  matter  how  shaky  the  vehicle 
or  how  shabby  the  driver. 

“Don’t  keep  her  out  too  late,”  warned  Doctor 
Donnellon.  “We  have  a  hard  operation  to-morrow 
morning,  and  we  must  all  be  fresh  for  it.” 

“We  won’t  be  long,”  said  Edward.  “We  are 
going  out  along  Soochow  Creek  and  back  by  the 
Rubicon  Road.” 

The  Rubicon  is  the  last  outlying  ribbon  of  foreign 


THE  WARM  GRAVE 


81 


influence  around  Shanghai.  Across  it  lie  the  path¬ 
less  fields  of  China  itself. 

On  the  shafts  of  the  carriage  hung  two  large, 
illumined,  paper  lanterns,  shedding  a  fitful  colored 
light  on  the  ground  at  the  horse’s  head.  The  streets 
were  a  mass  of  rickshas  and  people.  Children, 
amply  dressed  in  a  red  handkerchief,  played  by  the 
roadside.  At  the  doorways  of  the  houses  sat  little 
family  groups,  the  father  mayhap  with  the  youngest 
baby  perched  astride  his  shoulder.  Here  and  there 
a  man  was  playing  the  primitive  violin  of  the  people. 
Its  wailing,  plaintive  notes  hung  like  a  subtle  en¬ 
chantment  on  the  air.  We  passed  a  boy  blowing  a 
flute,  driving  home  to  the  stables  a  herd  of  unwieldy 
buffaloes.  Their  huge,  humped,  black  silhouettes 
were  unreal  in  the  night.  We  turned  down  Myburgh 
Road  and  out  on  to  the  thoroughfare  of  Bubbling 
Well.  There  foreign  motor  cars  mingled  with  the 
rickshas.  A  handsome  Sikh  policeman  saluted  me 
as  we  passed. 

“How  do  you  know  him?”  asked  Edward. 

“Oh!  I  know  half  the  policemen  in  town.  First 
of  all,  they  bring  their  wives  to  St.  Margaret’s  for 
treatment,  and  secondly  they  bring  in  a  lot  of 
municipal  cases.  But  this  man  is  a  special  friend 
of  mine.  He  thinks  I  saved  the  life  of  his  wife.” 

Edward  smiled  at  me,  and  I  felt  a  warm  rush  of 
happiness  tingle  through  me. 

“I  had  such  a  queer  sensation  when  he  came  to 
take  her  away.  She  was  standing  in  the  hospital 
court  with  her  baby  in  her  arms.  They  were  both 
dressed  in  some  gaudy  color  and  wrapped  up  to  the 


82 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


eyes.  The  Sikh,  very  tall  and  imposing  in  his 
municipal  uniform  of  blue  serge,  said  something 
rapidly  to  the  woman  that  I  couldn’t  understand. 
She  nodded  her  head.  The  next  moment  he  was  on 
the  ground,  kissing  my  feet.  I  felt  humble  and 
elated  at  the  same  moment.  The  homage  woke  up 
a  primitive  feeling  of  delight  in  power  over  people. 
I  was  rather  scared  to  find  how  much  I  enjoyed  it.” 

Along  the  road,  the  houses  stood  wide  open  to  the 
fragrant  night  air.  We  could  look  right  in  and  see 
groups  of  men  and  women  in  white  on  the  veran¬ 
dahs.  Opposite  the  Burlington  Hotel,  a  long  row 
of  plastered  Chinese  houses  was  overflowing  with 
Chinese  children.  An  eat-shop  next  door  was 
doing  a  good  business.  Then  we  left  the  city  behind 
us  and  drove  out  rapidly  into  the  country.  We 
passed  through  Zau-Ka-Doo,  where  the  silk  filatures 
were  silent  for  the  night,  and  came  out  beside  Soo- 
chow  Creek.  At  once  the  air  blew  cool  and  damp 
in  our  faces.  The  lights  of  the  city  and  houses 
gone,  the  world  seemed  to  grow  in  immensity  and 
stretch  away  infinitely  under  the  moon.  I  imagined 
it  stretching  away  and  away  till  it  touched  Russia 
and  America,  joining  hands  across  the  continent. 
Down  the  silent  river  the  junks,  with  their  tall, 
oblong  sails,  floated  mysteriously.  Now  and  then 
the  creak  of  an  oar  came  to  our  ears,  or  the  harsh 
call  of  the  ferryman.  Willows  grew  along  the  bank, 
and  a  pale  silver  moon  hung  in  the  sky. 

“  I’d  like  to  go  on  and  on  along  this  road,  Edward,” 
I  said.  ‘‘I  don’t  want  to  turn  off  from  the  Creek. 
The  fields  without  the  water  are  meaningless.  I 


AT  THE  TRINKET  STALL 


THE  WARM  GRAVE 


83 


feel  that  if  we  could  only  go  on,  we  would  come  to 
some  secret.  I’ve  always  had  to  turn  back  and 
go  home.  Some  day  I  want  to  just  go  right  on  and 
never  come  back.” 

‘‘Some  day  you  shall,”  he  promised,  ‘‘but  not 
to-night.  In  spite  of  all  the  wisdom  tucked  away 
inside  your  head,  I  know  a  thing  or  two  you  haven’t 
found  out  yet.  Life  has  no  secrets  just  around  the 
corner.  All  the  secrets  of  life  are  inside  us.” 

‘‘No,  it’s  not  that  kind  of  a  surprise  I  want,”  I 
replied.  “  I  want  something  to  happen  to  me  from 
the  outside.  I  don’t  want  to  have  to  evolve  it 
from  my  inner  consciousness.” 

A  carry  coolie  along  the  roadside  passed  us, 
going  in  the  other  direction,  humming  his  strange 
two  notes  beneath  his  breath.  It  is  a  sound  that 
always  takes  my  breath  away. 

‘‘Never  mind,  dear,”  I  said,  “I’m  satisfied.” 

Junk  after  junk  moved  past  us  noiselessly. 
Phantoms  they  were,  coming  from  the  unknown, 
going  to  the  unknown,  all  palpitating  with  life. 
Tree  toads  sang  along  the  road,  and  their  soft, 
throaty  gurgle  filled  me  with  a  strange  unrest.  One 
sleepless  “Sau-Sau-Man-Hau”  bird  cried  out  across 
the  plains  like  the  sudden  night  call  of  a  loon.  We 
came  to  the  bend  in  the  road  where  it  leaves  the 
Creek  and  turns  back  towards  Shanghai  through 
the  fields.  This  road  is  a  small,  winding  road,  sup¬ 
posed  to  be  kept  in  repair  by  the  municipal  council. 
A  run  of  water,  edged  with  steep  banks,  borders 
one  side.  Across  that  run  is  China,  un-foreignized, 
eternal,  just  as  it  was  centuries  ago.  I  remember, 


84 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


when  I  was  little,  going  to  the  circus  in  Madison 
Square  Garden  and  seeing  a  man  ride  two  horses 
at  once.  He  stood  with  a  foot  on  each  and  galloped. 
When  I  wanted  to  think  of  something  thrilling,  I 
remembered  that  ride.  Missionaries  in  China  are 
like  that,  one  foot  in  the  twentieth  century  and  one 
in  the  ages  b.c.  Only  that  little  run  of  clear  water 
separated  the  two.  And  we  on  our  side  that  night 
looked  back  to  the  past  and  caught  our  breaths  in 
wonder. 

Quite  a  lot  of  people  were  going  along  the  road, 
both  men  and  women,  and  of  course  children.  They 
chattered  and  gesticulated.  Their  lanterns  of  red 
and  yellow,  hung  on  the  ends  of  slender,  bamboo 
canes,  bobbed  up  and  down  as  they  walked.  A  few 
were  well  dressed,  but  for  the  most  part  they  were 
of  the  coolie  class  and  clad  in  the  blue  clothes  of 
the  workers. 

“I  wonder  where  they  are  all  going?” 

“Ask  the  driver,”  suggested  Edward.  “I  am 
curious  too.” 

“Why  for  all  these  many  people,”  I  said  to  the 
driver  in  pidgin. 

“Me  no  savvy,”  he  answered. 

“Ask,  ask,  find  out,”  I  ordered. 

He  called  out  to  a  tall  man  hurrying  by,  who 
answered  in  quick  jargon,  unintelligible  to  me.  The 
driver  twisted  around  on  his  seat  to  answer  with 
evident  excitement.  “One  father,  he  die.  Belong 
one  very  good  man.  Son,  good  man  too.  To-night, 
he  warm  his  father’s  grave.” 

“What?”  I  cried.  J 


THE  WARM  GRAVE 


85 


“Missey  come  look  see,”  he  answered. 

We  followed  the  crowds  about  a  mile  down  the 
road.  They  then  crossed  the  run  on  a  bridge  of 
flat  stepping-stones  and  vanished  into  the  silvery 
darkness  of  the  field  beyond.  The  coachman  turned 
around  eagerly.  ‘‘Missey  come  too?”  he  said. 

At  first  Edward  wouldn’t  go.  He  said  he  was 
afraid  for  me,  though  why  he  need  be  afraid  for 
me,  I  don’t  know,  when  I  am  never  afraid  for 
myself.  Men  are  incomprehensible  creatures  !  For 
a  while  I  really  thought  he  wouldn’t  let  me  go.  I 
didn’t  want  to  quarrel,  but  neither  did  I  want  to 
sit  there  in  that  carriage  and  not  see  what  was 
going  on,  on  the  other  side.  My  old  feelings  of 
rebellion  began  to  perk  their  heads  up,  but  they 
weren’t  needed.  While  our  carriage  waited  at  the 
roadside,  we  saw  a  procession  of  lanterns  coming 
down  behind  us.  When  they  drew  near,  we  saw 
that  they  were  a  company  of  priests  in  long  gray 
robes,  carrying  drums  and  short  sticks  which 
they  struck  together  like  castanets.  One  by  one 
the  priests  crossed  the  little  run  on  the  century- 
old  slabs  of  stone,  then  they  too  vanished  into 
the  silvery  mistiness  of  the  field  beyond.  But 
now  the  meadow  was  not  silent.  It  vibrated  to 
the  rhythmic  throb  of  the  drums  and  the  stick¬ 
like  castanets. 

The  driver  wriggled  about  on  his  seat.  “Missey 
no  come?”  he  inquired.  “Never  mind.  Can  do, 
Missey,  Master,  come  look  see.” 

He  jumped  down  from  the  box,  and  I  followed 
suit.  By  this  time,  I  think  that  Edward’s  natural 


86 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


curiosity  had  overcome  his  scruples.  Without  a 
word  of  objection  he  followed  us. 

I  climbed  down  the  steep  bank  to  the  water’s 
edge  and  stepped  out,  across,  on  the  flat  stones. 
They  were  solid  as  the  very  earth  itself,  Druid¬ 
like  and  ancient.  Across  them  countless  farmers 
and  country  folk  had  crossed  the  Rubicon  into 
Civilization.  I  tried  to  put  myself  into  their  minds, 
to  grasp  the  wonder  and  daring  of  thus  rashly 
venturing  out  of  the  snug  past  into  the  wild  wonder 
of  the  present.  I  tried  and  I  failed.  My  own  point 
of  view  rushed  back  upon  me.  Here  was  I,  a 
modern  as  I  liked  to  think,  stepping  back  into  the 
untold  ages  of  antiquity.  After  all  it  was  as 
wonderful  as  their  stepping  out.  And  one  thing 
I  had  gained,  in  that  one  particular  I  was  ahead  — 
I  was  quivering  with  consciousness.  O !  I  don’t 
mean  of  myself,  but  of  the  world.  I  suppose  a  lark 
mounts  and  sings  from  an  inner,  sublime  instinct, 
but  if  a  man  were  thus  to  mount  and  sing,  it  would 
be  with  an  ecstasy  of  joy.  I  felt  that  these  silent, 
shadowy  folk  were  as  primitive  as  the  birds  of  the  air. 

I  crossed  the  little  stream  and  went  up  the  opposite 
bank  by  a  narrow  footpath  into  the  rice  fields  beyond. 
As  soon  as  we  had  gained  the  level  of  the  field,  we 
saw  the  people  like  a  dense  shadow  near  a  circle  of 
cypress  trees  at  the  farther  end  of  the  meadow.  The 
field  was  thickly  studded  with  grave  mounds,  little, 
lonely  ones  of  babies  and  family  groups  of  twos  and 
threes.  “Tsing  Ming”  was  but  lately  past,  and 
the  tops  of  the  graves  were  bare  of  grass.  At 
‘‘Tsing  Ming”  the  families  go  to  the  graves  of  their 


THE  WARM  GRAVE 


87 


ancestors  and  pull  off  all  the  grass  that  has  grown 
during  the  past  year,  leaving  only  a  little  tuft  on 
the  top,  so  that  the  grave  shall  look  fresh.  On  the 
peak  of  the  grave  thus  made  bald,  the  offerings  of 
food  and  paper  money  are  placed.  The  group  of 
cypresses  towards  which  we  were  making  our  way 
surrounded  a  pretentious  family  burying  mound. 

“Makee  quick,”  urged  the  coachman.  ‘‘Want- 
chee  look  see.” 

He  broke  into  a  soft  run,  and  I  hurried  after  him. 

The  cypresses  grew  up  straight  and  slender  around 
a  group  of  three  mounds.  The  people  were  clustered 
close  around  the  edge  of  the  enclosure.  The  priests 
were  grouped  at  one  end.  A  fresh  grave  was  just 
dug.  The  earth  lay  piled  up  at  one  side  in  a  moist 
brown  heap.  Two  coolies,  still  sweating  and  wiping 
their  eyes,  stood  at  one  side  beside  their  shovels. 
We  joined  the  crowd  unnoticed ;  the  priests  were 
already  chanting.  Out  on  the  misty,  silvery  quiet¬ 
ness  of  the  night  floated  their  ancient  incantation, 
the  prayer  for  a  blessing  for  the  dead.  The  lighted 
lanterns  glowed  in  splashes  of  red  and  yellow  light. 
With  intense  interest  the  crowd  watched  the  priests. 
Heathen  and  ancient  as  the  human  race  itself  was 
this  prayer  for  the  dead.  And  if  Our  Lord  has  said 
that  not  one  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground  without  His 
compassion,  so  must  His  love  flow  out  over  this 
heathen  grave.  I  ceased  to  feel  alien  and  strange,  a 
spectator ;  rather  I  felt  I  was  a  part  of  the  mourning 
crowd. 

Little  rustlings  of  the  night  wind  crept  through 
the  knee-high  rice  stalks.  The  clouds  seemed  to 


88 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


lean  close  and  whisper  as  they  rushed  across  the 
moon,  now  throwing  the  scene  into  sudden  light,  and 
now  hiding  it  in  dusky  gloom.  The  priests  chanted, 
and  the  acolytes  beat  their  drums  and  wooden 
sticks.  The  sound  seemed  to  be  arriving  at  a 
frenzied  climax. 

Then  I  suddenly  saw  that  all  eyes  were  directed 
toward  a  young  man  who  stood  a  little  before  the 
rest  at  the  very  edge  of  the  grave.  He  wore  the 
unbleached  sackcloth  of  a  first  mourner.  An  old 
woman  stood  near  him,  holding  a  small  child  in  her 
arms. 

The  music  came  to  an  end,  and  the  high  priest 
said  a  few  words.  I  didn’t  catch  their  meaning,  but 
a  thrill  ran  through  me,  as  the  tones  of  his  voice 
vibrated  commandingly  over  the  company.  The 
moon  rushed  behind  a  thick  cloud.  Some  of  the 
lanterns  had  burnt  out,  only  two  or  three  still 
glowed  through  their  fragile  paper  frames.  A 
weird,  ominous  stillness  fell  on  the  group.  I  too 
held  my  breath,  and  a  sudden  terror  and  horror 
filled  me.  I  put  out  my  hand  and  caught  Edward’s. 
His  fingers  were  warm  and  felt  comforting  to  my 
cold  ones. 

The  young  man  whom  everybody  was  watching 
suddenly  knelt  on  the  ground  before  the  priests 
and  struck  his  head  against  the  earth  thrice.  I 
had  no  idea  of  what  was  to  follow.  When  he  rose 
he  turned  toward  the  open  grave  and  jumped 
swiftly  into  its  depths.  A  shuddering  sigh,  almost 
a  stifled  laugh,  swept  through  the  crowd.  The 
chanting  of  the  priests  broke  out  again.  The 


THE  WARM  GRAVE 


89 


people  began  to  stir  about,  as  if  their  paralyzed 
limbs  had  suddenly  come  to  life.  Here  and  there 
one  lighted  a  new  candle  in  his  lantern.  A  few 
stragglers  started  off  back  across  the  fields.  The 
priests  wound  three  times  around  the  grave  with  its 
living  human  occupant,  then  off  across  the  zigzag 
path  through  the  rice  field.  Most  of  the  people 
followed.  The  woman  carrying  the  baby  and  an 
amah  nurse  or  two  accompanying  her,  still  lingered. 
The  voices  of  the  throng  which  had  crossed  back 
over  the  Rubicon  to  the  outskirts  of  the  foreign 
settlement  floated  out  clearly  on  the  night  air. 
The  woman  leaned  over  the  edge  of  the  grave. 

“Are  you  all  right,”  she  called.  “Is  it  cold  in 
the  grave?” 

“It’s  very  cold.  I  feel  the  chill  of  death  creeping 
over  my  bones.  However,  it  is  of  no  importance. 
I  will  warm  the  grave  for  my  father’s  body.  He  shall 
never  feel  the  chill  of  death.  I  will  warm  it  with  my 
warm  blood.  Go  home,  Great  Mother,  and  sleep 
till  dawn.  I  will  be  waiting  for  your  coming  with 
the  sunshine  in  the  morning.  Lift  up  my  son,  my 
first-born,  that  he  may  see  the  filialness  of  his 
father  and  remember.” 

The  voice  from  the  grave  ceased.  The  woman 
at  the  edge  of  the  grave  lifted  up  the  child  and  held 
it  out  over  the  hole  in  the  earth.  Its  baby  eyes 
wandered  away  and  up  to  the  pretty  moonshine 
above  its  head.  It  refused  to  look  down  into  the 
grave. 

“Till  to-morrow,  with  the  sun,”  said  the  voice  of 
the  Filial  Son.  At  last  the  mother  and  her  little 


go 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


cortege  filed  away  across  the  fields.  We  stood  alone 
under  the  shade  of  the  cypresses.  It  seemed  too 
terrible  for  every  one  to  go  away  to  warm  beds  and 
hot  tea  and  leave  that  young  man  out  there  in  the 
silent  rice  field,  shut  in  by  the  high  walls  of  the 
freshly  dug  grave,  all  alone  in  the  darkness. 

“Come,”  said  the  driver,  tugging  at  my  sleeve. 
“Missey  must  come  away.  It  no  belong  good 
custom  for  any  one  to  stay  by  the  warm  grave. 
It  no  belong  proper.” 

“But  suppose  something  should  happen  to  him,” 
I  cried. 

The  coachman  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “What 
thing  can  happen?”  he  asked  in  scorn.  “No  man 
touchee  he.  He  belong  one  piecee  very  holy  son. 
Never  mind !  Come  away.  No  can  stay  by  warm 
grave.  The  devils  can  catch.” 

“What  devils,”  I  asked. 

“Oh,  any  devils,  bad  devils !  No  likee  son  warm 
grave.  Go  round  and  round  on  the  outside  to 
catch  son  if  he  get  up  too  soon.  Hear.” 

The  man  held  up  his  hand  and  poised  his  head  to 
listen.  The  night  wind  was  rising  and  moaning 
through  the  stiff  branches  of  the  cypresses. 

“  I  hear  the  devils  already,”  he  stammered. 
“  Missey  makee  quick.  Come  away.” 

He  caught  at  my  dress  and  pulled  me  along  the  path. 

“It’s  useless  to  stay,  Wilhelmina,”  said  Edward. 
“It’s  dangerous  to  interfere  with  the  native  customs. 
Besides,  there  is  no  real  danger  to  the  fellow,  not 
any  more  than  to  any  soldier  who  sleeps  on  the 
ground  all  night.” 


THE  WARM  GRAVE 


9i 


Edward  caught  my  hand  and  hurried  me  along, 
back  to  civilization,  through  the  twisting  path  in 
the  rice  fields,  over  the  brook  by  the  Druid  stones 
and  into  our  bit  of  modernity,  the  diminutive 
victoria. 

“Drive  back  chop  chop,”  thundered  Edward. 
“It  will  be  midnight  before  we  get  back,  and  it  will 
create  a  scandal  in  the  mission.” 

His  orders  were  unnecessary  to  the  Chinese 
coachman.  At  full  gallop  we  tore  down  the  river 
road,  nor  did  he  slacken  his  pace  till  we  were  well 
within  the  lights  of  the  settlement.  As  I  lay  in 
my  warm,  white-sheeted  bed  that  night,  I  couldn’t 
sleep.  My  thoughts  ran  away  with  me.  I  seemed 
to  float  out  of  myself  and  stream  out  over  the  little 
run  at  the  Rubicon,  over  the  rice  field,  and  pause 
under  the  black  wings  of  the  cypress  trees.  The 
moon  shadows  flickered  over  the  open  grave  where 
the  son  lay  warming  the  cold  earth  for  the  bones  of 
his  father.  The  baffled  devils  whispered  in  the 
cypress  needles,  and  from  the  edge  of  the  stream 
came  the  sleepy  croak  of  the  tree  toads.  I  wondered 
was  He  listening  too  ?  And  was  it  very  cold  in  the 
grave  ?  So  dreaming,  I  fell  asleep  at  last. 


X 


THE  SLAVE  REFUGE  AT  KAUNG  WAN 


THE  rebellion  was  in  full  sway.  For  three 
days  the  rebels  had  been  bombarding  the 
arsenal.  All  our  Christians  from  The 
Native  City  and  all  the  patients  that  were  too  sick 
to  go  home  from  the  West  Gate  Hospital  had  crowded 
into  our  compound.  Mattresses  were  hauled  down 
from  the  attic  and  stretched  on  the  floor  between  the 
beds.  Families  brought  their  bedding  and  spread 
it  in  the  yard  and  slept.  Children  slept  two  by 
two,  feet  to  feet  in  the  cribs.  All  our  dearly  beloved 
law  and  order  vanished.  We  simply  took  in  every¬ 
body  we  could,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  tried  to  do  the 
most  needed  medical  work.  But  everybody  was 
demoralized.  In  the  midst  of  a  dressing,  the  nurses 
would  pause  to  listen  to  the  patter  of  distant  shots. 
Now  and  then  the  very  earth  seemed  to  tremble. 
Doctor  Donnellon  and  I  went  about  among  the 
crowds,  saying  continually,  “Do  not  fear;  do  not 
fear.”  I  believe  if  we  had  been  suddenly  wakened 
from  our  sleep  we  would  automatically  have  said, 
“Do  not  fear.”  Fortunately  the  weather  was 
pleasant.  We  heard  that  a  bullet  had  gone  right 
through  the  wall  above  the  head  of  the  Doctor 
at  West  Gate.  It  whizzed  across  the  room 


THE  SLAVE  REFUGE  AT  KAUNG  WAN 


93 


and  buried  itself  in  the  opposite  wall.  “Loo-I- 
Sung”,  as  the  Chinese  call  her,  was  in  danger,  and 
our  little  band  of  refugees  was  tormented  with  fear 
for  her.  She  refused  to  leave  the  hospital,  as  there 
were  still  a  few  patients  too  sick  to  be  moved.  After 
it  was  all  over  I  dined  with  her  in  the  room  still 
riddled  with  bullet  holes.  But  here  at  St.  Margaret’s 
we  were  safe.  A  wild  shot  or  two  flew  overhead,  but 
none  fell  in  our  compound. 

One  evening  —  it  was  the  third  day  of  the  bom¬ 
bardment  —  we  were  sitting  on  the  verandah,  listen¬ 
ing  to  the  far-off  patter  of  bullets,  when  the  telephone 
rang  shrilly.  Edward  rose  to  answer  it. 

“It  is  no  use  your  going,”  I  said.  “It’s  sure  to 
be  some  one  asking  about  a  patient,  and  I  might  as 
well  go  at  once.” 

“Very  well,”  said  Edward. 

It  was  Miss  Judson  at  the  Door  of  Hope.  She 
wanted  some  one  to  go  down  to  the  Slave  Refuge  at 
Kaung  Wan  to  relieve  Miss  Fairchild,  who  had  come 
down  writh  dysentery.  The  orphanage  for  the 
younger  girls  was  at  Kaung  Wan  near  the  Woosung 
forts.  Up  till  now  all  the  fighting  had  been  about 
the  Arsenal  at  the  west  of  the  settlement.  Miss 
Judson  thought  the  children  would  be  perfectly 
safe  with  their  Chinese  teachers,  but  she  didn’t 
like  to  feel  there  was  no  one  in  charge  in  such 
uncertain  times.  Did  I  think  any  one  could  be 
spared  ? 

“I  can  come,”  I  answered.  “I  was  supposed  to 
go  away  on  a  vacation,  but  no  one  can  get  away  just 
now.  We  aren’t  able  to  do  any  proper  medical 


94 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


work,  but  spend  our  time  dosing  out  sedatives. 
I’ll  love  to  come.” 

So  it  was  arranged,  and  I  went  down  the  next 
day  to  take  charge.  The  building  is  a  square, 
barrack-like  affair  of  gray  brick,  standing  alone 
in  a  field  of  grave  mounds.  To  the  south  lies  the 
stream  of  the  Whangpoo,  meeting  at  right  angles 
the  vast  yellow  flood  of  the  YangTse.  On  the  fork 
of  land  between  the  two  rivers  stand  the  Woosung 
forts.  All  the  shipping  to  and  from  Shanghai  sails 
up  the  Woosung.  The  new  railroad  from  Shanghai 
to  the  Point  runs  between  the  house  and  the  shore. 
Inland  the  ground  stretches  towards  the  horizon  in 
billowing,  grave-humped  fields  almost  concealing 
the  groups  of  bamboo  houses  and  the  scattered 
villages. 

I  soon  began  to  feel  at  home  with  all  the  little  waifs. 
They  were  as  clean  as  a  new  day  and  obedient  and 
well  behaved.  When  they  found  I  liked  to  play 
games  when  lessons  were  over,  they  took  to  me  at 
once.  I  had  no  real  duties.  The  Chinese  teachers 
took  care  of  all  the  regular  lessons.  I  looked  over 
their  scalps  and  eyes  and  ears  while  I  had  opportunity 
and  sat  at  the  long  table  with  them  at  meal  times. 
And  at  night  I  made  rounds  through  the  bare, 
open-windowed  rooms,  seeing  that  each  little  tot 
was  in  her  appointed  cot  of  the  double-decker  tiers. 
Sometimes  we  played  hide  and  seek  around  the 
grave  mounds,  and  sometimes  we  stood  at  the  wide 
curtainless  windows  and  watched  the  sails  on  the 
river.  I’d  tell  them  stories  about  each  boat  that 
went  by,  about  the  gray  warships,  or  the  ancient 


THE  SLAVE  REFUGE  AT  KAUNG  WAN  95 


junks  with  their  yellow  eyes  at  the  prow  and  their 
tattered  sails  of  matting. 

The  days  passed  swiftly.  Edward  came  down 
daily.  Miss  Fairchild  improved  steadily,  and  I 
was  soon  expecting  to  return  to  the  hospital.  Then 
came  the  sudden  shifting  of  the  seat  of  warfare 
from  the  Arsenal,  at  the  southwest  of  the  settlement, 
to  the  Woosung  forts  at  the  north.  I  remember  that 
morning  perfectly.  It  was  August  thirteen,  and  I 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  long  breakfast  table  and 
said  Grace  with  no  thought  in  my  head  but  of  the 
day’s  usual  routine.  With  demure  orderliness  the 
little  girls,  all  under  twelve,  seated  themselves  on 
their  stools  and  began  their  bowls  of  rice.  The 
first  few  moments  were  always  devoted  in  silence  to 
the  rite  of  eating,  but  as  the  bowls  were  replenished 
for  the  second  time,  the  children  began  their  eager 
talk.  On  either  side  of  me  sat  my  two  best  teachers. 
As  the  conversation  broke  out,  one  of  them  leaned 
towards  me  and  spoke  in  low  tones. 

“Doctor  Wilhelmina,”  she  said,  “the  boy  from 
my  father’s  house  came  early  this  morning  with  a 
letter  from  my  father,  urging  me  to  return  at  once 
to  Shanghai.  He  writes  that  the  city  is  full  of 
rumors  of  an  attack  on  the  forts.  He  fears  for  my 
safety.” 

I  was  filled  with  consternation.  “You  must  go, 
Dong  lung,”  I  said.  “It  is  only  right  that  any  one 
who  can  should  go.  I  will  dismiss  all  the  teachers 
and  servants  this  morning.  I  don’t  want  any  one 
to  take  any  risks.  As  for  myself,  I  don’t  believe 
there  is  any  real  danger.  Miss  Judson  would  have 


g6 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


told  us  if  there  were,  or  Mr.  Stevens  would  have 
come  out.” 

“Will  you  go?  Will  the  children  go?”  asked 
Dong  lung. 

“If  there  is  real  danger,  of  course  we  will  go,”  I 
answered.  “But  we  must  not  let  ourselves  be 
driven  away  by  a  foolish  panic.  It  is  hard  to  find  a 
home  at  a  moment’s  notice  for  one  hundred  and 
eighty  little  girls.” 

“There  are  the  refuge  camps,”  suggested  Dong 
lung.  “Father  says  that  bread  and  soup  is  being 
distributed  free  every  morning  in  the  marketplaces 
in  Shanghai.” 

“That  would  never  do,”  I  cried  aghast.  “I’m 
really  not  worried,  for  Miss  Judson  will  let  me  know 
in  time  if  we  have  to  leave.” 

“If  you  stay,  then  I  will,”  answered  Dong  lung. 
She  started  to  her  feet  impetuously. 

“I’d  like  to  keep  you,”  I  said.  “You  are  a  great 
help  to  me,  but  since  your  father  has  sent  for  you, 
you  must  go.” 

Dong  lung  shook  her  head.  “I’m  not  a  slave 
any  more,”  she  asserted.  “I  earn  my  own  living. 
My  duty  is  the  same  as  yours.  You  cannot  make 
me  a  coward.  I  will  not  run  away.” 

She  looked  so  very  slim  and  boyish  and  determined 
as  she  drew  herself  up  in  her  trousers  and  jacket  that 
I  almost  yielded. 

“Where  is  the  boy?”  I  asked. 

“He  is  waiting  in  the  kitchen,”  Dong  lung 
replied. 

“Send  him  to  me  in  my  office,”  I  said. 


THE  SLAVE  REFUGE  AT  KAUNG  WAN  97 


Dong  lung  went  to  give  my  message,  and  I 
walked  across  the  hall  into  the  tiny,  white  cubbyhole 
which  was  Miss  Fairchild’s  office.  On  the  wall  hung 
a  picture  of  Christ  blessing  little  children.  One  big 
desk  stood  across  the  wall  opposite  the  door.  There 
were  two  chairs,  one  for  Miss  Fairchild  and  one  for 
a  visitor.  Dong  lung  came  in,  followed  by  a  boy 
in  the  long,  white,  regulation  upper  garment  of  a 
Chinese  house  servant.  Breaking  into  rapid  Chinese, 
he  began  his  story.  I]  caught  his  meaning  well 
enough,  but  I  wanted  to  be  sure. 

“What  does  he  say?”  I  asked  Dong  lung. 

“He  says,”  she  answered,  “that  orders  have  been 
issued  to  close  the  river  to  all  incoming  and  out¬ 
going  craft,  that  all  the  government  war  boats  are 
steaming  towards  the  point,  and  that  the  bombard¬ 
ment  will  begin  at  2  p.m.  The  rebels  are  expecting 
reinforcements  by  evening.” 

If  true,  that  was  bad  news  indeed,  but  we  had 
been  fed  by  so  many  unreliable  rumors  that  I  did 
not  let  myself  worry  too  much.  I  knew  that  Miss 
Judson  and  Edward  would  let  me  know  in  time,  if 
anything  really  dangerous  threatened.  Still  I  dis¬ 
missed  all  the  paid  teachers  and  servants  and  sent 
them  home  till  further  notice.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  excitement  among  the  children,  for  though  I 
forbade  any  one  explaining  the  cause  of  the  sudden 
holiday,  still  the  news  leaked  out.  The  servants 
and  teachers  rushed  about  wildly,  packing  up  their 
belongings  and  taking  tearful  farewells.  In  an 
incredibly  short  time  the  little  cavalcade  was  ready 
to  start  for  the  station  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant. 


98 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


Dong  lung  was  the  last  to  leave.  She  clung  to  my 
arm  weeping.  “Come  too,”  she  urged.  “You 
don’t  know  Chinese  soldiers.  First  they  fire  the 
place,  then  they  loot.  Pretty  women  first.” 

The  girl  clung  to  me  in  real  terror.  Almost  she 
shook  my  resolution.  Suppose  the  news  were  really 
authentic  this  time.  Miss  Judson  and  Edward 
would  not  have  time  to  reach  us  before  the  bombard¬ 
ment  began,  and  the  Refuge  was  in  the  direct  firing 
line.  If  there  hadn’t  been  quite  so  many  children,  I 
believe  I  would  have  gone,  but  No !  It  was  im¬ 
possible.  My  trust  in  the  others  reasserted  itself.  I 
knew  they  would  not  forget  us.  Probably  at  this 
very  moment  they  were  perfecting  a  plan  for  our 
benefit.  While  I  hesitated,  the  ’phone  rang.  It  was 
Miss  Judson  herself. 

Dong  lung  paused  in  the  doorway  to  hear  her 
message.  It  was  short  but  reassuring.  “It’s  all 
right,”  I  said,  feeling  that  a  weight  had  been  lifted 
off  my  heart.  “The  fighting  is  not  to  begin  till 
to-morrow  afternoon,  and  in  the  morning  Miss 
Judson  is  bringing  out  a  special  train  to  take  all  the 
children  away  to  West  Gate,  which  is  now  the  safest 
place.” 

“Then  I  shall  stay  too,”  said  Dong  lung. 

“No,  indeed,”  I  said.  “Your  father  has  sent 
for  you  and  go  you  must.” 

I  gave  her  a  little  shove  and  shut  the  door  behind 
her.  I  had  a  pang  of  loneliness  after  they  all  left, 
and  I  wondered  why  Edward  had  not  come  down  to 
stay  with  us.  It  seemed,  if  there  ever  were  a  fitting 
time  to  have  a  man  in  the  house,  this  was  it.  I 


THE  SLAVE  REFUGE  AT  KAUNG  WAN  99 


felt  I  belonged  with  the  little  outcasts,  the  poor 
little  tots  who  had  been  beaten  and  tortured  and 
starved  little  slaves.  We  were  all  forgotten  and  un¬ 
wanted.  It  is  a  horrible  feeling.  Fortunately  for 
me,  the  children  would  not  let  me  alone.  They 
clustered  around  me,  wanting  to  know  what  it  all 
meant.  A  few  of  the  older  ones  stood  quiet  and 
solemn.  They  were  all  quite  demoralized.  Of 
course  I  could  not  let  that  go  on.  I  divided  them 
up  into  their  usual  classes  and  called  each  older 
girl  by  the  name  of  a  departed  teacher.  Only  give 
a  Chinese  a  part  to  play,  and  you  have  given  her 
an  absorbing  interest.  Real  dramatic  ability  seems 
to  lie  around  loose  anywhere  among  them.  The 
veriest  beggar  off  the  streets  can  act  a  part.  The 
accustomed  routine  calmed  the  children,  and  by 
afternoon  no  traces  of  unusual  excitement  were  to 
be  seen.  Only,  when  playtime  came,  I  kept  them 
indoors,  and  we  went  upstairs  to  the  attic.  I  stood 
at  the  window  and  watched  the  Whangpoo  River. 
It  looked  very  clear  and  gray,  winding  between  its 
willow-fringed  banks.  On  the  opposite  shore  the 
low  houses  of  Pootung  were  half  hidden  in  trees. 
Around  the  forts,  in  a  menacing  semicircle,  clustered 
a  score  or  more  Chinese  men-of-war.  Ultra-modern, 
painted  in  hungry  gray,  or  medieval  survivors  with 
high,  curling  poops  and  painted  yellow  eyes  on  the 
bows,  the  vessels  loomed  sinister  through  the 
gathering  dusk.  Beyond  their  lines  in  the  river  lay 
three  or  four  foreign  gunboats,  and  at  the  mouth  of 
the  YangTse  was  a  foreign  liner  waiting  to  come  up 
to  Shanghai.  So  near  they  seemed,  as  if  I  could 


IOO 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


put  out  my  hand  and  touch  them.  They  were 
soundless,  motionless ;  they  lay  like  phantoms  on 
the  water.  The  low  bamboo  houses  along  the 
bank,  the  willows  bending  in  the  wind,  a  wheel¬ 
barrow  trundled  along  in  blissful  leisure  —  these 
were  the  real  things,  not  those  inconceivable  shapes 
conjured  up  by  some  evil  imagination.  Yet  over 
the  forts,  in  flaunting  arrogance,  floated  the  flag 
of  the  rebels.  I  stood  at  the  window  a  long  time 
watching  those  motionless  monsters. 

Night  fell.  I  put  the  children  to  bed  in  their  long 
rows  of  double-decker  cots.  Then  I  made  the 
rounds  of  the  Refuge,  bolting  windows  and  barring 
doors.  At  last  I  had  done  everything  I  could  think 
of.  I  went  to  my  room  and  undressed  for  bed,  but 
I  couldn’t  sleep.  It  was  no  use  lying  staring  at  the 
ceiling,  so  I  got  up  and  put  on  a  wrapper  and  went 
out  on  to  the  verandah  outside  my  window.  The 
stars  were  shining  peacefully.  One,  more  brilliant 
than  the  rest,  cast  a  glittering  drop  of  gold  reflection 
in  the  water.  The  men-of-war  were  hardly  visible ; 
not  a  light  shone  on  them.  The  night  was  very  still, 
not  a  cricket  chirped,  not  a  leaf  stirred. 

I  almost  went  to  sleep  in  my  long  chair  on  the 
porch.  Indeed,  I  must  have  dozed  off,  for  I  was 
awakened  by  a  red  flash  of  light  and  a  deafening 
noise.  The  gunboats  had  opened  fire  on  the  forts. 
Siau-Noen,  the  baby  of  the  institution,  began  to 
cry.  I  picked  her  up  and  held  her  in  my  arms.  A 
few  of  the  children  stirred  and  cried  out  in  their 
sleep,  but  most  of  them  slept  through  the  bombard¬ 
ment.  For  an  hour  or  more  the  boats  kept  up  an 


THE  SLAVE  REFUGE  AT  KAUNG  WAN  ioi 


active  bombardment  of  the  fort.  A  pallid  search¬ 
light  played  incessantly  on  its  walls.  In  its  light  I 
could  see  the  holes  torn  through  the  masonry. 
Once,  when  the  wind  veered,  I  fancied  I  heard  the 
cries  of  men  in  pain.  Then  the  firing  ceased,  and 
again  the  night  was  starred  in  silver  peace.  The 
tall  grasses  on  the  conical  grave  mounds  waved 
gently,  a  cricket  chirped,  Siau-Noen  slept  soundly  in 
my  arms.  I  sat  on  the  verandah  till  dawn.  I 
watched  the  first,  utterly  forlorn,  gray  light  that 
streaked  the  sky,  watched  till  it  quivered  in  a  vibrat¬ 
ing  purple  and  suddenly  burst  into  rose  and  yellow. 
The  crows  began  to  fly  back  to  the  fields  behind 
Shanghai  for  their  day’s  feeding.  I  always  loved 
to  watch  them  go,  soaring  past  in  twos  and  threes, 
with  an  occasional  lazy  straggler  by  himself.  Often, 
when  I  had  come  in  early  from  a  night  case,  I  had 
seen  them  winging  their  way  countryward  across  the 
red  dawn.  At  evening  they  came  back  to  the  shelter 
of  the  city  to  roost.  When  I  saw  the  crows,  I  was 
reassured.  Day  had  come,  and  we  were  safe.  Soon 
Miss  Judson  and  Edward  would  appear,  and  my 
vigil  would  be  over.  Lifting  the  baby  in  my  arms, 
I  went  in  and  put  her  down  in  her  crib.  Then  I  flung 
myself  across  the  bed  and  went  to  sleep  at  once. 

Suddenly  some  one  was  shaking  me  and  calling 
to  me  in  terror.  “Wake  up,  wake  up.  A  bullet 
has  come  through  the  dining-room  window.” 

Another  child  burst  into  the  room,  crying,  “Three 
bullets  have  come  into  the  eating  room.” 

“One  fell  into  my  bowl  of  rice,”  sobbed  Ah-Me, 
casting  herself  into  my  lap. 


102 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


The  room  was  rapidly  filling  with  frightened, 
crying  children. 

“My  finger  is  hurt,”  wailed  one  of  the  smaller 
youngsters,  pushing  her  way  through  to  me,  cupping 
her  bleeding  finger  in  the  palm  of  her  other  hand. 

“May-Li  has  fainted  on  the  floor  in  the  hall,”  some 
one  announced. 

“They  are  shooting  at  us  from  behind  the  grave 
mounds,”  said  A-Doo,  the  first  arrival.  “Lots  of 
men.” 

I  ran  to  one  of  the  back  windows.  It  was  as  the 
children  had  announced.  Little  villainous  puffs  of 
pale  smoke  floated  out  continually  from  behind  the 
grave  mounds  which  made  a  series  of  natural 
breastworks  and  effectually  hid  the  assailants. 

“Why?”  I  asked  of  myself.  The  children  were 
crowding  about  me  again,  some  of  them  hysterical 
and  many  crying.  “Don’t  be  scared,”  I  said. 
“See,  I’m  not  scared  at  all.  We’ll  just  pretend  they 
aren’t  there  at  all,  and  sing  our  favorite  hymn.” 

I  began  the  old,  old  song,  “There  is  a  happy  land 
far,  far  away.”  The  words  of  it  were  the  first 
Chinese  words  I  had  learned  and  now  came  as  easily 
to  my  tongue  as  the  English.  The  children  joined 
me,  at  first  falteringly  but  soon  with  more  force 
and  volume.  Still  singingt  I  marched  off  to  the 
kitchen  at  the  river  side  of  the  house.  The  rhythm 
of  the  tune  and  the  shuffling  of  the  children’s  feet 
drowned  the  ominous  patter  of  the  bullets  on  the 
roof.  I  made  them  sit  down  in  a  kindergarten  circle 
in  the  kitchen  and  sing  songs.  The  children  grew 
quieter.  They  began  some  of  their  favorite  games. 


THE  SLAVE  REFUGE  AT  KAUNG  WAN  103 


Crash !  A  shell  burst  through  the  roof  and 
splintered  the  chairs  and  tables  in  the  dining  room. 
A  jagged  crack  yawned  in  the  wall  between.  The 
children  screamed  with  terror. 

For  a  moment,  I  was  paralyzed.  We  were  caught 
like  rats  in  a  trap,  to  be  shot  to  death  before  help 
could  arrive.  We  were  all  alone !  Miles  from 
Shanghai !  Separated  from  our  friends  !  The  children 
huddled  about  me,  and  I  felt  their  little  hands,  cold 
with  fright,  clinging  to  me.  Then  I  remembered 
the  telephone.  I  called  the  older  girls  to  me  and 
tried  to  instill  into  them  some  courage.  Anyway 
I  made  them  all  stop  screaming  and  started  them 
again  on  “There  is  a  happy  land.”  I  told  them  to 
see  how  many  verses  they  could  sing  before  I  got 
back  from  the  telephone.  Then  I  dashed  down  the 
hall.  The  telephone  was  in  the  vestibule  on  the 
land  side  of  the  house.  Everywhere  were  signs  of 
the  effectiveness  of  the  rebels’  fire  in  broken  windows 
and  charred  splinters.  I  had  to  wait  a  little,  while 
Central  got  Miss  Judson.  I  listened  to  the  patter  of 
the  bullets  against  the  walls  and  roof  of  the  building. 
The  children’s  voices  came  to  me  faintly  through 
the  closed  doors.  Miss  Judson’s  voice  was  the  most 
welcome  sound  on  earth. 

“We  are  being  fired  on,  Miss  Judson,”  I  said. 
“The  rebels,  hundreds  of  them,  crouch  behind  the 
grave  mounds.  Yes,  several  children  are  hurt 
slightly.  One  shell  burst  in  the  dining  room.  No 
one  is  killed.  There  must  be  some  mistake. 
Perhaps  they  think  the  house  is  a  barracks.  You’ll 
be  down  soon?  I  don’t  see  how  you  can  stop  it, 


104 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


but  I  know  you  will.  We  are  all  right.  Don’t 
worry.  Good-by.” 

Reluctantly,  I  hung  up  the  receiver.  I  wanted 
to  keep  her  talking  to  me ;  I  felt  more  courageous 
while  she  was  talking.  She  had  promised  to  organize 
a  relief  party  immediately  and  come  down  in  a 
special  train  for  the  children.  Miss  Judson  hadn’t 
mentioned  Edward,  and  I  had  half  a  mind  to  call 
him  up,  but  I  didn’t.  I  knew  it  would  worry  him 
so.  He  might  do  something  rash.  I  began  cal¬ 
culating  how  soon  they  would  be  here.  Calculate 
as  I  would,  allowing  for  no  delay,  they  couldn’t 
reach  Kaung  Wan  under  two  hours. 

Two  hours ! 

A  bullet  tore  through  the  glass  of  the  vestibule 
and  grazed  my  cheek.  It  stung  a  little,  and  a  few 
drops  of  blood  fell  on  my  hand.  The  hideous  cry 
of  a  shell  shrieked  overhead.  It  fell  into  the  yard 
beyond,  casting  up  a  cascade  of  dirt.  How  fantastic 
it  was !  An  army  of  men  storming  a  home  for  little 
children ! 

My  mind  seized  upon  the  idea  that  there  must  be 
some  mistake,  that  the  rebels  did  not  know.  Surely 
if  they  knew,  they  would  stop.  In  that  moment  of 
terror  but  one  solution  presented  itself  to  me,  quite 
simple,  as  most  solutions  are.  It  was  merely  to 
open  the  door  and  walk  out  and  show  myself  a 
couple  of  times.  When  the  rebels  knew  that  a 
foreign  woman  lived  in  the  house,  surely  they  would 
stop  firing.  And  then  the  children  and  I  would  be 
saved.  I  saw  it  with  startling  clearness.  Just 
open  the  door  and  walk  out !  But  suppose  the 


THE  SLAVE  REFUGE  AT  KAUNG  WAN  105 


rebels  didn’t  stop  firing?  Suppose  -they  dashed 
forward  and  surrounded  me.  With  ghastly  vivid¬ 
ness,  I  remembered  the  tales  of  the  Boxer  atrocities, 
of  other  women  tortured  in  the  slaying.  A  panic 
swept  over  me.  I  was  deathly  afraid,  afraid  for 
myself  and  for  the  children.  I  knew  the  rescue 
party  would  be  too  late ;  if  we  were  to  be  saved  we 
had  to  be  saved  now.  I  was  in  a  blue  funk.  I 
thought  of  the  Chinese  men,  of  their  horrible, 
bloody  hands  and  their  imperturbable,  grinning 
eyes.  They  were  inhuman ;  they  had  no  respect 
for  women.  If  they  touched  me  I  must  die,  and  if 
I  died  the  children  would  be  left  alone.  The  fate  of 
these  little  rescued  slave  girls  would  be  a  thousand 
times  worse  than  before  their  rescue.  Chinese 
soldiers  spear  babies  on  the  ends  of  their  bayonets. 

I  believed  the  rebels  thought  troops  of  the  Republic 
were  hidden  within,  waiting  the  opportune  moment 
to  sally  forth  and  repulse  the  attack.  If  they  knew 
there  were  only  children,  girl  children,  at  their 
mercy,  would  they  stay  their  hands,  or  would  they 
rush  the  building  and  begin  their  malignant  pillage 
and  loot  ? 

A  deadly  weakness  overcame  me.  I  thought  I 
was  dying.  The  one  remaining  thing  to  do  my 
body  refused  to  do.  I  could  not  open  that  door 
and  walk  out  in  the  face  of  the  raining  bullets.  It 
would  be  foolhardy,  reckless.  And  yet,  therein  lay 
the  only  chance  of  safety  for  the  children,  the  one 
last  slim  chance  for  life.  I  was  trembling  in  a 
very  passion  of  terror. 

Another  shell  burst  overhead.  In  a  fresh  access 


io6 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


of  fear,  the  children  screamed  aloud.  The  end 
grew  inevitable. 

A  quiet,  emotionless  calm  fell  on  me.  I  loosened 
the  fastenings  of  my  white  duck  skirt  and  slipped  it 
off,  standing  in  a  white  petticoat.  I  unbolted  the 
heavily  barred  door  and  stepped  out  on  the  terrace, 
waving  my  white  skirt  above  my  head.  I  was  like 
a  person  in  a  trance,  without  a  quiver  of  fright. 
Once,  twice,  three  times  I  paraded  the  length  of  the 
terrace,  waving  my  white  flag  of  truce.  The  bullets 
kicked  up  the  ground  about  me  and  struck  little 
bits  of  plaster  and  stone  from  the  walls.  I  fancied  I 
felt  the  heat  of  their  flying. 

A  dreadful  sickness  began  to  creep  over  me.  The 
fields  reeled  and  grew  black.  The  grave  mounds 
became  tall  peaks,  spitting  fire.  The  bullets  flew 
faster  than  ever.  I  groped  for  the  door,  found  it, 
pulled  it  to  behind  me,  and  slid  to  the  floor  in  a 
little  heap  against  it.  I  think  I  must  have  fainted. 
I  seemed  to  live  a  long  time  with  the  raining  of 
bullets  echoing  through  my  brain. 

A-doo  awoke  me.  “They  have  stopped,’’  she 
cried.  “They  have  stopped  for  almost  a  half  an 
hour.  We  were  worried  about  you,  so  I  came  out  to 
find  you.” 

I  just  put  my  arms  around  her  and  cried.  “Thank 
God,  we  are  saved.” 

“How  did  God  save  us?”  asked  A-doo. 

A  flood  of  happiness  rushed  over  me.  God  had 
used  me  to  save  them  ;  He  had  given  me  a  chance  to 
help.  I  wasn’t  tired  any  more,  I  felt  as  gay  and 
light-hearted  as  a  lark. 


THE  SLAVE  REFUGE  AT  KAUNG  WAN  107 


“Let’s  get  the  noontime  rice,”  I  said. 

We  had  a  gay  time  getting  lunch.  The  children 
seemed  to  catch  my  good  spirits.  As  for  me,  I  was 
only  too  thankful  that  I  had  been  given  strength  to 
rise  to  my  chance.  In  the  midst  of  the  meal  the 
rescue  party  surprised  us.  Finding  the  door  open, 
they  had  come  right  in.  I  looked  up  to  see  Miss 
Judson,  followed  by  the  American  consul  and  Doctor 
Richards,  the  head  of  the  Red  Cross,  standing  in 
the  doorway.  Over  their  heads  I  saw  Edward. 
There  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  I  had  never  seen  before, 
a  look  of  deadly  anxiety. 

“  For  the  last  two  hours  I  have  lived  in  a  purgatory 
of  expectation,”  said  Miss  Judson.  “I  expected  to 
find  the  house  in  flames,  half  the  children  burned  to 
death,  and  the  other  half  slain,  while  you,  my  dear,  I 
never  expected  to  find  at  all.  And  here  you  are 
eating  tiffin  as  quietly  as  if  Shanghai  were  stormed 
daily.” 

“How  did  you  manage  to  get  here  so  soon,”  I 
asked. 

“I  ’phoned  the  consul  at  once.  He  got  official 
permission  to  use  the  Red  Cross  flag  of  truce  and 
bring  away  the  children.  There  is  a  special  train 
waiting  at  the  station  to  take  them  all  back 
to  Shanghai.  When  we  reached  Kaung  Wan,  it 
was  as  peaceful  as  a  graveyard.” 

“It  might  very  well  have  been  a  graveyard,”  said 
the  consul,  “but  for  Doctor  Wilhelmina’s  presence 
of  mind  and  bravery.” 

But  I  looked  past  him  to  Edward  for  my  approval. 
The  light  I  saw  shining  in  his  eyes  was  my  reward. 


io8 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


Each  child  made  a  bundle  of  its  night  clothes,  and 
we  marched  them  down  to  the  train,  two  by  two. 
On  either  side  were  drawn  up  the  ranks  of  the  soldiers, 
rebels  and  government  troops  facing  each  other,  and 
as  through  the  stemmed-back  waters  of  the  Red 
Sea,  the  little  children  of  the  Lord  walked  in  safety. 
As  the  train  pulled  out  of  the  station,  the  deadly  pop¬ 
ping  of  the  bullets  began  again ! 


XI 


THE  WALLED  CITY 

EDWi\RD  insisted  that  I  accept  an  invitation 
that  came  for  me  from  Soochow  a  few  days 
later.  Doctor  Donnellon  also  wanted  me  to 
go,  and  it  was  my  regular  vacation  time.  Around 
Shanghai  the  government  troops  were  victorious, 
and  the  panic  was  subsiding.  One  by  one  the 
refugee  families  returned  to  the  Native  City,  and 
the  hospital  began  to  take  on  its  usual  appearance 
of  order  and  quiet.  In  the  afternoons  after  tea  it 
became  a  fad  to  ride  out  to  the  Arsenal  and  pick  up 
spent  bullets  for  souvenirs.  Miss  Chase  at  Jessfield 
had  two  tall  conical  shells  on  the  mantelpiece  which 
she  had  picked  up  after  a  riot.  Always  when  I 
visited  her  my  eyes  returned  to  those  unexploded 
shells  on  the  mantelpiece  among  the  vases  of  blue 
and  white  plum  blossoms.  One  of  the  men  said 
they  might  explode  some  day.  They  were  to  me 
symbolic  of  life  in  China,  so  smooth  and  shiny  and 
symmetrical,  yet  with  a  deadly  power  hidden 
within.  Here  and  there  through  the  settlement, 
broken  windows  and  tiny  round  holes  through  the 
solid  wood  doorways  testified  to  the  excitement  of 
the  past  weeks.  But  otherwise  it  seemed  all  over. 
Up  the  river  however  the  rebels  were  drawing  near 
Nankin. 


no 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


I  hated  to  admit  it,  but  I  found  myself  rather 
shaky  after  the  episode  at  Kaung  Wan,  and  I  was 
glad  enough  to  accept  my  Soochow  invitation.  So 
far  I  had  not  been  out  of  Shanghai ;  I  had  been  too 
busy.  As  the  wide  pathless  fields  of  the  country 
around  Shanghai  had  caught  my  imagination,  so 
my  first  sight  of  a  walled  city  rising  on  the  plain 
was  to  take  my  breath  away. 

Edward  came  to  the  station  to  see  me  off.  “I 
wish  you  were  coming  with  me,”  I  said.  “  I 
suddenly  feel  that  I  am  going  to  be  homesick.” 

“For  me?”  asked  Edward.  “That  is  the  first 
real  sign  of  devotion  on  your  part  that  I  have  seen.” 

“I  know  you  pine  for  the  clinging  vine,”  I  said 
to  tease  him  a  little. 

“No,  I  don’t,”  he  said.  “I  only  pine  for  you. 
Set  a  date  and  set  it  soon,  and  we’ll  go  off  and  take 
a  lovely  honeymoon  all  over  China,  and  you  shall 
see  all  the  world.” 

“It  sounds  like  a  famous  temptation,”  I  said. 

“Well?”  he  questioned. 

“I  can’t  decide  right  here,  all  in  a  moment,”  I 
said. 

“But  I  thought  you  had  been  deciding  at  your 
leisure  all  these  last  weeks.  You  said  you  were 
deciding.  I  want  you.” 

The  guard  came  along,  clanging  to  the  carriage 
doors.  The  vendors  of  food,  of  eggs  boiled  in  tea, 
of  soggy  dough  balls,  of  bottled  TanSan  water, 
moved  away  reluctantly  from  the  carriage  windows 
and  lost  their  interest  in  this  particular  trainload 
of  people. 


THE  WALLED  CITY 


hi 


“Good-by,”  said  Edward,  holding  my  hand 
through  the  open  window.  “Don’t  forget  1  will  want 
an  answer  when  you  come  back.” 

Off  we  went.  It  took  only  a  few  moments  to  leave 
Shanghai  behind  and  to  run  out  into  those  limitless 
plains  that  had  so  allured  me  all  winter.  It  was 
unbelievable  !  Like  some  dinosaur,  huge  and  crush¬ 
ing,  the  train  streaked  through  those  fields  of  the 
past.  On  each  side  they  stretched,  quiet,  waving 
with  groves  of  fresh  green  bamboo  grasses  and  the 
lush  green  of  the  new  rice.  The  planting  season  was 
over,  but  here  and  there  a  few  farmers  were  thigh 
deep  in  mud,  transplanting.  Lazy  buffaloes  browsed 
between  the  cultivated  patches,  guarded  each  by 
an  urchin.  The  little  boys  lolled  side-saddle  on 
the  wide  backs  of  the  huge  animals  and  switched 
at  the  flies  with  a  leaf-tipped  branch.  No  fences, 
no  walls,  no  dividing  partitions  of  any  kind  were 
in  sight.  Around  the  clan-like  family  dwellings 
grew  groves  of  bamboo  and  camphor  and  an  oc¬ 
casional  sycamore.  Through  the  leaves  I  caught 
glimpses  of  the  pointed,  thatched  roofs  of  the  houses. 
The  walls  were  of  plaited  bamboo  branches.  Of 
course  there  was  no  paint  anywhere,  and  the  houses 
seemed  as  much  an  integral  part  of  the  fields  as  the 
trees.  Between  the  fields  meandered  little  rills  of 
muddy  water.  Across  the  fields  I  suddenly  saw  the 
slow,  stately  sails  of  junks.  The  hulls  of  the  boats 
were  invisible ;  only  the  billowing  brown  sails  moved 
along  over  the  fields  like  cloud  shadows.  It  was 
Soochow  Creek  off  there,  below  its  banks,  winding 
down  from  the  interior  to  the  shore.  “The  In- 


1 1 2 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


terior”,  “Up  River”,  are  magic  words  to  the  dweller 
in  Shanghai.  They  represent  the  unknown  and  its 
magic.  I  took  a  little  quick  breath  of  delight.  Here 
was  I  too  going  to  “the  Interior”,  voyaging  back 
fathoms  deep  into  the  unconscious  past  of  the  race. 

My  friend,  Doctor  Grace,  had  been  a  college  mate 
in  Old  Philadelphia.  I  had  met  her  at  the  wharf 
when  she  came  out,  but  I  had  not  seen  her  since.  She 
had  said  in  her  letter  that  she  would  meet  me  at  the 
station  if  she  could  get  through  with  clinic  in  time. 
If  not,  she  would  send  the  hospital  boy.  I  had  only 
a  suit  case  for  my  short  visit. 

The  two  hours  passed  like  two  minutes.  With 
startling  suddenness  I  saw  the  walled  city  rise  on 
the  horizon  quite  distinct  and  clear.  It  must  have 
been  visible  several  minutes  before  I  saw  it,  because 
when  I  first  turned,  there  it  was,  battlemented  and 
hoary  and  romantic,  like  any  Maxfield  Parrish 
picture  but  a  thousand  times  more  real.  Around  it 
swept  the  wide  brown  moat,  a  real  moat  full  of  water 
and  busy  with  rowboats  and  junks.  The  walls 
were  great,  high,  massive  structures.  I  saw  people 
walking  on  them.  Turrets  marked  the  octagonal 
corners.  Ramparts  of  green  sod  ran  up  to  the  edge 
of  the  walls,  and  tangled  masses  of  vines  with  delicate 
white  blossoms  cascaded  from  the  top.  I  couldn’t 
take  my  eyes  from  the  sight. 

At  the  station  a  crowd  of  coolies,  sedan-chair 
carriers,  and  donkey  men  clustered  around  the  exit, 
crying  their  fare  to  the  city  of  Beautiful  Soo,  for  the 
railroad  station  is  outside  the  city  and  across  the 
moat.  I  looked  in  vain  for  Doctor  Grace.  Not  a 


SEDAN  CHAIR  AND  BEARERS 


THE  WALLED  CITY 


113 

familiar  face  was  in  sight.  I  picked  up  my  suit  case 
and  followed  the  rest  of  the  passengers  out  of  the  exit 
gate.  A  tall  coolie  waved  a  piece  of  paper  at  every 
foreigner  who  passed  him.  I  saw  them  looking  at 
the  paper  and  shaking  their  heads  and  passing  on.  I 
was  curious  about  the  paper.  I  walked  in  line  so  that 
I  too  should  have  a  chance  to  look  at  the  strange 
writing  on  the  paper.  The  man  before  me  had 
passed  on.  The  coolie  thrust  the  paper  in  my  face. 
I  gasped  in  sheer  surprise,  for  on  that  mysterious 
paper  that  had  been  presented  to  each  passenger  who 
had  descended  from  the  train  was  my  name. 

“For  Doctor  Wilhelmina,”  it  said  in  Doctor 
Grace’s  familiar  handwriting.  What  a  primitive 
method,  yet  how  simple  and  effective  !  At  my  smile 
of  recognition,  the  coolie  nodded  as  if  relieved, 
grabbed  my  suit  case,  and  led  me  out  of  the  station 
towards  the  stand  of  sedan  chairs.  Like  waiting 
palanquins,  they  were  ranged  along  the  path  with 
their  groups  of  bearers,  sometimes  two  by  the  poorer 
chairs,  more  usually  three,  and  occasionally  four, 
if  the  chair  was  meant  for  a  fat  man.  Some  were 
ancient  affairs  with  closely  drawn  curtains ;  some 
more  modern,  of  wicker,  with  their  gay  curtains 
looped  back.  All  around  me  was  the  bustle  of 
people  making  bargains  and  stowing  away  their 
belongings.  Just  before  me  a  portly  Chinaman 
with  several  bundles  done  up  in  silk  handkerchiefs 
got  into  a  sedan  chair.  The  little  bearers  stooped 
into  position  under  the  shafts.  One  gave  a  guttural 
grunt  as  signal  to  the  man  behind.  With  a  sideways 
lurch  they  rose  to  their  feet  and  swung  off  down  the 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


114 

path  at  a  brisk  walk.  Fascinated,  I  was  standing 
watching  them. 

“Take  care,”  shouted  the  hospital  coolie  at  my 
elbow.  I  jumped  aside  to  let  a  string  of  donkeys 
pass.  Astride  each  little  fellow  dangled  a  China¬ 
man,  their  long  legs  quite  able  to  help  along  by 
giving  the  ground  a  kick. 

Then  I  got  into  my  first  sedan  chair.  The  hos¬ 
pital  coolie  tucked  my  suit  case  under  my  feet  and 
then  disappeared.  I  supposed  he  had  given  ample 
instructions  to  the  bearers.  With  a  simultaneous 
swoop,  they  crawled  into  the  shafts  which  are  closed 
with  a  crossbar  before  and  behind.  This  bar  rests 
on  the  back  of  their  shoulders  across  the  neck.  They 
have  rags  that  they  roll  into  a  bundle  and  stick 
under  the  crossbar,  much  as  a  violinist  sticks  a 
handkerchief  under  his  chin.  The  shafts,  that 
stick  out  before  and  behind  the  chair,  are  about  four 
feet  long.  Swung  aloft  in  the  air  like  a  veritable 
queen  we  started  down  the  rough  path.  I  had 
three  bearers.  They  walked  with  a  rhythmic  jerky 
movement,  and  at  every  twenty  paces  or  so  one  of 
the  bearers  gave  a  different  grunt.  The  third  man, 
who  had  been  walking  alongside  mopping  himself, 
eyes  and  chest  and  abdomen,  would  spring  into 
place.  There  would  be  an  infinitesimal  halt  while 
the  exchange  was  made  from  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
and  on  we  would  go.  Over  it  all  streamed  the 
yellow  sunshine,  and  on  my  left  rose  the  green 
ramparts  and  lichen  gray  walls  of  the  ancient  city. 

At  the  edge  of  the  moat  I  was  put  down,  and  we 
all  boarded  a  ferry.  On  the  opposite  side  I  got  in 


THE  WALLED  CITY 


ns 

again.  With  a  whoop  they  caught  me  up  and  off 
we  went,  up  and  up,  through  the  side  gate  in  the 
walls,  and  into  the  city  itself.  Never  will  I  forget 
that  first  ride  through  Soochow.  Perhaps  the  fact 
that  I  was  alone,  with  no  one  to  talk  to,  and  that  I 
was  a  stranger,  going  I  knew  not  where,  lent  me  a 
sense  of  adventure.  However  it  came  about,  I  felt 
transported  into  the  land  of  Aladdin  and  the  forty 
thieves.  All  the  sights  that  met  my  eyes  were 
fantastic  and  bizarre,  out  of  shape  and  proportion 
with  modern  life.  Great  jars  of  tea  stood  at  the 
corners  of  the  streets,  out  of  which  any  one  who 
thirsted  dipped  a  cup  of  brown  tea  in  a  pale,  sand- 
colored,  wooden  dipper.  I  watched  the  carry-coolies 
set  down  their  burdens,  wipe  the  sweat  from  out  their 
eyes,  and  lift  up  a  dripping  dipperful  of  tea  to  their 
mouths.  Each  jar  stood  in  a  wooden  stand  under 
a  bent  roof,  like  the  shelter  one  sometimes  sees  over 
old-fashioned  gates.  Each  one  was  big  enough  to 
hide  a  man. 

The  curtains  of  my  chair  were  looped  back,  for 
was  I  not  a  bold,  foreign  woman  who  looked  at  the 
passers-by  !  I  saw  hardly  any  women  on  the  streets, 
—  now  and  then  a  coolie  woman  carrying  a  kettle  of 
boiling  water  which  she  had  bought  at  the  nearest 
cook-shop  for  a  few  cash,  or  an  old  hag  sitting  in  a 
doorway.  The  streets  were  like  the  alleyways  of 
Venice.  At  any  moment  I  could  put  out  my  two 
hands  and  touch  the  houses  on  either  side.  The 
Soochow  Creek  entered  the  city  and  ran  through  the 
town  in  a  network  of  canals.  The  beautiful  arched 
bridges  of  China  spanned  the  crossings  at  every 


n6 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


turn.  Without  warning,  up  we  would  go,  over  high 
flights  of  irregular  steps.  At  the  summit  of  the 
bridge  I  would  look  up  and  down  the  canal  and  see 
the  houses  built  like  a  solid  wall  along  its  edge. 
Some  of  the  streets  were  empty  and  deserted,  and 
again  we  traversed  the  thoroughfares  of  the  town. 
We  went  along  the  Street  of  the  Weavers.  In  each 
low,  open  room  I  saw  the  looms  on  which  were 
stretched  wondrous  fabrics  of  flowered  brocade, 
palest  pink  and  baby  blue  and  bridal  crimson.  I 
wondered  how  they  were  kept  so  clean  in  such 
darkened  houses.  From  the  Street  of  the  Weavers 
we  turned  into  the  Street  of  the  Jade  Cutters.  Here 
the  whirring  sound  of  the  wheels  filled  the  air,  and 
the  cutters  stood  stooping  over  their  ancient  revolv¬ 
ing  grindstones.  We  came  out  on  the  market  square 
before  a  huge  temple.  The  air  smelt  faintly  of 
incense  and  the  sound  of  temple  bells  hung  over  the 
place. 

On  and  on  we  went.  A  sense  of  unreality  stole 
over  me.  We  weren’t  going  anywhere  in  particular, 
we  were  just  going  on  and  on,  as  I  had  always 
wanted  to,  seeing  all  the  wonder  of  the  whole  world. 
I  felt  that  this  ancient,  walled  city  contained  every¬ 
thing  in  the  world. 

After  an  hour  and  a  half  of  this  wild,  silent  carrying 
into  the  unknown,  I  began  to  feel  that  I  was  being 
carried  off  in  earnest.  I  wasn’t  really  scared,  but  I 
felt  pleasantly  thrilled.  Should  I  presently  have  to 
call  out  to  a  chance  passer-by  to  rescue  me?  Did 
these  silent,  jogging  men  know  where  they  were 
going,  or  had  they  become  hypnotized  by  the  regular 


THE  TEMPLE 


THE  WALLED  CITY 


117 

motion?  We  were  passing  along  an  empty  street. 
A  wide  stream  of  water  ran  at  one  side,  and  beyond 
it  rose  the  walls  of  a  house  more  pretentious  than 
most.  It  was  two  stories  high.  Small  grilled 
windows  as  big  as  a  napkin  overlooked  the  stream. 
A  heavy  wooden  door  studded  with  brass  nails 
opened  on  to  a  steep  flight  of  steps  that  led  to  the 
water’s  edge.  The  fringes  of  two  black  cypresses 
tipped  the  walls  that  ran  down  the  side  of  the  stream 
from  the  house.  The  water  itself  was  sluggish,  and 
a  faint,  iridescent  green  scum  floated  on  its  surface. 
Two  or  three  helpless  brown  leaves  were  caught  in 
this  green  mesh  and  lay  listless  and  motionless.  We 
were  the  only  people  in  sight.  A  queer,  dank  smell 
pervaded  the  place.  In  the  ooze  between  the  house 
and  the  water,  a  large  green  toad  with  purple  spots 
blinked  its  protruding  eyes. 

“What  man  live  this  side?”  I  asked  in  Chinese. 

At  the  sound  of  my  voice,  the  front  bearer  turned 
around  in  surprise.  This  threw  the  back  bearer  out 
of  step,  and  they  both  stopped.  They  sat  my  chair 
down  and  began  mopping  their  brows.  The  third 
bearer  joined  the  one  in  front. 

“Ah!  Teacher  knows  to  speak  Middle  Kingdom 
speech,”  the  man  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

“A  little,  little,”  I  said.  “Who  lives  in  that  big 
house?  ” 

“A  very  rich  man,  oh  Teacher,  born  before.  But 
very  sad.  He  has  no  sons.  He  is  now  old  in  years, 
already  sixty  and  very  venerable.  He  has  four  wives, 
but  they  all  bear  daughters.  Only  one  year  ago 
he  married  a  young  and  beautiful  wife.  There  was 


n8 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


great  rejoicing  in  the  whole  house.  She  will  soon 
bear  a  child.  All  year  he  and  all  his  wives  have 
prayed  daily  at  the  temple  that  the  child  may  be  a 
son.  The  Small  Wife  was  carried  out  herself  daily, 
so  devout  was  she,  but  now  she  goes  out  no  longer. 
They  are  all  awaiting  the  great  day.” 

I  looked  at  the  silent,  barred  house  with  added 
interest.  In  what  frame  of  mind  was  the  young  girl 
waiting  within?  A  boy  would  mean  the  road  to 
happiness.  She  would  be  the  old  man’s  favorite, 
the  darling  of  his  eyes.  The  Great  First  wife  would 
no  longer  look  down  on  her  and  lord  it  over  her.  But 
a  girl  meant  despair.  And  as  I  looked  at  the  house, 
a  face  appeared  at  one  of  the  small,  barred  upper 
windows  in  the  second  story,  at  one  of  those  windows 
no  larger  than  a  napkin.  It  was  the  face  of  a  girl, 
and  her  eyes  looked  across  at  me,  riding  so  brazenly, 
so  jauntily  through  the  streets  of  the  strange  city, 
in  my  outlandish  clothes,  with  big  feet.  I  wondered 
did  she  envy  my  freedom,  or  did  she  shrink  from  it? 
Did  she  think  I  was  a  “foreign  devil”  with  bold, 
forward  manners,  or  did  she  think  I  was  the  fore¬ 
runner  of  a  like  liberty  for  the  girls  of  China?  I 
couldn’t  tell  what  she  thought,  but  I  felt  her  eyes 
calling  to  me.  She  held  the  bars  that  spanned  the 
window  in  her  fingers  and  pressed  her  face  closer 
and  closer  against  them.  Her  hands  looked  very 
slim  and  transparent,  and  her  eyes  held  a  look 
of  appeal. 

I  smiled  at  her  and  waved  my  hand.  She  looked 
at  me  a  moment,  then  she  too  smiled.  Some  one 
appeared  over  her  shoulder  and  drew  her  away. 


THE  WALLED  CITY 


119 


“Good  to  look  upon,”  said  the  bearers  with  a  sly 
smile.  “The  first  wife  is  fierce  come  death.” 

They  picked  me  up  again  and  started  off  at  the 
never- tiring  dogtrot  down  the  street. 

“This  house,  call  itself  how?”  I  asked. 

“The  House  of  Li,”  they  answered. 

In  about  fifteen  minutes  we  reached  the  com¬ 
pound.  The  mission  had  bought  land  on  both  sides 
of  the  street  long  years  ago  and  had  planted  rows  of 
trees.  Frame  cottages  that  reminded  me  of  New 
England  stood  on  both  sides.  More  pretentious 
brick  buildings,  the  girls’  school  and  the  boys’ 
college,  stood  in  their  own  campuses.  Sweet  peas 
looked  at  me  over  the  low  fence,  and  a  mass  of 
petunias  covered  the  posts  of  the  porch.  A  wonder¬ 
ful  sense  of  peace  and  cleanliness  and  busy  activity 
pervaded  the  place.  I  heard  the  clear  voices  of 
children  at  play  and  the  thud  of  a  falling  ball. 

In  the  round  stone  gateway,  the  entrance  to  the 
hospital,  which  was  built  in  Chinese  style,  stood 
Doctor  Grace  to  receive  me. 


XII 

THE  FISHING  BIRDS 

I  NEVER  got  over  my  feeling  of  enchantment 
in  Soochow.  It  has  always  remained  for  me 
a  place  of  marvels,  yet  the  people  who  lived 
there  took  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  con¬ 
trast  between  the  community  of  missionaries  and 
the  Chinese  was  sharper  than  in  Shanghai.  Each 
was  more  individual,  more  remote  from  the  other. 
And  to  me  the  strangest  thing  about  the  situation 
was  that  the  ultimate  point  of  contact  was  not  ma¬ 
terial  but  spiritual.  Each  separate  race  held  fast  to 
its  own  customs  of  eating  and  sleeping  and  dressing. 
The  Chinese  women  saw  our  unbound  feet,  and, 
though  some  daring  ones  followed  suit,  the  great 
mass  of  the  women  were  satisfied  with  small  feet, 
were  still  even  proud  of  them.  And  we  saw  the 
freedom  of  the  daintily  trousered  Chinese  women, 
yet  none  of  us  adopted  their  custom,  much  as  some 
of  us  wanted  to.  No,  it  was  not  on  the  plane  of 
material  things  that  the  two  races  touched,  it  was  on 
that  utterly  essential  plane  of  things  spiritual.  The 
whole  human  race  is  forever  groping  with  out¬ 
stretched  hands  towards  the  light,  and  these  groping, 
unseeing  hands  touch  in  the  darkness.  That  common 


THE  FISHING  BIRDS 


121 


need  and  common  desire  was  welding  the  two  com¬ 
munities,  the  ancient  Chinese  of  the  Walled  City 
and  the  Modern  American  missionaries,  into  one 
community. 

The  mission  had  made  itself  a  beautiful  home  at  the 
extreme  end  of  the  town  up  against  the  inner  moat. 
A  lane  paved  with  bricks,  wider  than  the  city  streets, 
ran  through  the  center  of  the  compound.  On  one 
side  was  the  university  with  a  campus  of  its  own  for 
the  boys,  and  on  the  other  side  was  the  girls’  school 
and  the  woman’s  hospital  and  the  nurses’  training 
school.  The  trees  in  the  lane  had  been  planted  long 
ago  by  those  heroic,  pioneer  missionaries  who  came 
into  the  unknown  when  a  voyage  to  China  was  like 
a  voyage  to  another  planet,  and  China  seemed  as 
far  away  from  home  as  Mars.  When  I  think  of 
them,  they  seem  a  different  race  from  us.  They 
were  heroes  and  martyrs,  while  nowadays  it’s  only 
a  joy  to  be  a  missionary. 

That  evening  after  supper  Doctor  Grace  and  I 
walked  up  and  down  the  shady  lane  with  our  arms 
wrapped  around  each  other’s  waists  in  the  fashion 
of  long  ago.  We  talked  of  everything  under  the 
sun,  of  Philadelphia  and  all  the  girls  we  had  known 
there.  One  had  gone  to  Persia  and  had  married  a 
minister  and  had  a  daughter.  Another  had  gone 
to  Mexico,  had  married,  and  had  had  to  leave  the 
country  during^ the  revolutions.  Still  another  was 
in  India.  I  had  recently  met  a  nurse  from  the  old 
hospital  who  had  gone  to  Syria.  Her  surgery  over¬ 
looked  the  deep  blue  waters  of  the  Mediterranean. 
We  talked  them  all  over,  marveling  at  the  strange 


122 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


destinies  of  people  once  so  near  together  in  daily 
work,  now  scattered  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

The  city  was  very  still.  The  water  gates  are 
closed  at  sundown,  and  the  cumbrous,  iron-toothed 
portcullis  lowered  into  the  water.  We  walked  to 
the  end  of  the  lane  and  stood  at  the  top  of  a  flight  of 
stone  steps  that  led  to  a  landing  along  the  inner 
moat.  A  few  wakeful  boatmen  were  poling  them¬ 
selves  lazily  past.  At  the  landing  two  boats  were 
anchored,  and  a  couple  of  coolies  were  loading  them 
with  bulky  bales  of  silk.  Lanterns,  striped  in 
rings  of  red  and  white,  hung  on  the  boats.  Behind 
us  the  lane  was  unlit  and  shadowy.  Before  us 
the  sluggish  water  looked  solid  and  stationary. 
Above  us  rose  the  wall,  silhouetted  like  a  battle- 
mented  shadow  against  the  starry  sky.  We  could 
hardly  see  it,  but  we  saw  a  space  in  the  sky  where 
there  should  have  been  stars,  and  where  instead 
there  was  a  regular  turreted  blackness.  We  were 
shut  in  for  the  night !  The  water  gates  were  doubly 
closed,  and  all  the  little  postern  gates  in  the  walls 
were  barred  and  guarded  by  sentries. 

Like  the  little  woman  who  lost  her  petticoat,  I 
hugged  myself  and  said,  “This  is  none  of  I !” 

From  beyond  the  wall  came  the  faint,  distant 
sound  of  frogs.  It  was  not  really  a  sound ;  rather 
it  made  the  air  vibrate  as  a  shell  vibrates  when 
pressed  against  the  ear. 

“It’s  time  to  go  to  bed,”  said  Doctor  Grace. 
“We  all  go  to  bed  with  the  Chinese.” 

“I  hate  to  go  in,”  I  said,  “and  lose  any  of  this 
enchantment.” 


WATERGATE,  SUNGKIANG 


THE  FISHING  BIRDS 


123 


Doctor  Grace  laughed.  “It  won’t  evaporate 
overnight,”  she  said.  “It  has  been  here  for  thou¬ 
sands  and  thousands  of  years.  If  ever  anything  in 
the  history  of  mankind  can  be  called  permanent, 
this  can.” 

“But  you  can’t  tell!”  I  cried.  “It  has  never 
before  met  western  civilization.  It’s  a  solvent.  All 
the  old  things  crumble  at  its  touch.” 

“You  are  inconsistent,”  said  Doctor  Grace.  “If 
you  regret  the  past,  why  be  a  missionary?  ” 

“No,  I  am  not,”  I  answered.  “I  don’t  think 
China  is  perfect,  nor  do  I  think  we  are  perfect.  I 
have  come  to  bring  the  love  of  Jesus  Christ,  not  our 
habits.  But  don’t  let’s  argue.  I’d  rather  just 
walk  up  and  down  under  these  old  trees  and  feel 
myself  a  part  of  the  antiquity.” 

“You  foolish  child  !  We’ll  go  to  bed.” 

So  we  did.  I  hadn’t  slept  outside  my  own  room 
since  coming  to  China.  Once  shut  in  alone,  within 
four  walls,  I  felt  suddenly  homesick.  I  wanted  to 
be  back  at  St.  Margaret’s  ;  I  wanted  to  see  Edward. 
At  least,  I  wanted  a  letter  from  him  to  put  under  my 
pillow  when  I  went  to  sleep.  I  crawled  in  under 
the  canopy  of  the  mosquito  netting.  Close  outside 
my  window  grew  some  willows.  It  was  so  still  that 
I  heard  their  tiny  leaves  slithering  against  each 
other.  And  this  desert-like  quietness  was  in  the 
midst  of  a  city,  of  a  walled  city  of  teeming  millions. 
If  a  baby  cried,  I  felt  the  whole  city  would  hear  it. 
You  feel  that  such  profound  quiet  is  the  preparation 
for  a  stupendous  event. 

Before  I  knew  it,  it  was  morning.  I  made  rounds 


124 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


with  Doctor  Grace  and  helped  with  clinic.  In  the 
afternoon  she  had  prepared  a  treat  for  me.  One  of 
the  men  in  the  mission  had  a  rowboat  which  he 
loaned  to  us.  That  again  caught  my  breath  away. 
Here  I  was  in  a  rowboat,  floating  along  on  the  inner 
moat  of  Soochow !  We  went  down  the  watersteps, 
Mr.  Jackson  held  the  boat  for  us,  and  we  pushed  off. 
Doctor  Grace  insisted  upon  rowing,  for,  she  said,  I 
was  to  sit  in  the  stern  and  see  the  sights.  We 
rowed  down  to  the  nearest  Watergate.  It  was  as 
thick  as  a  house  and  the  old  blocks  of  stone  were 
green  with  moss.  Overhead  I  saw  the  black  teeth 
of  the  raised  portcullis  hanging  suspended  above 
me.  The  air  under  the  wide,  thick  gate  was  damp 
and  cool  as  in  a  cellar.  Near  the  gate,  the  inner 
moat  was  crowded  with  boats.  As  each  long  house¬ 
boat  approached  the  entrance,  the  oarsman,  standing 
at  the  stern,  gave  a  guttural  call,  and  the  prow, 
seeming  to  move  of  itself,  swung  sharply  into  sight. 
Once  through  it  and  on  the  outer  moat,  we  were 
plunged  into  another  sphere  of  life.  House  boats 
drifted  slowly  by,  a  man  at  the  stern  oar,  and  children 
sprawling  all  over  the  narrow  space.  Little  tots, 
dressed  in  red  rags,  climbed  around  the  edges  of  the 
boat  precariously.  The  next  moment  I  saw  one 
fall  overboard.  Before  I  had  time  to  scream  out, 
its  mother  jerked  it  up  again  by  a  rope  which  was 
tied  around  its  middle. 

“Don’t  they  mind  it  at  all?”  I  asked. 

“Oh,  no,  ”  said  Doctor  Grace.  “They  must  fall 
in  a  dozen  times  a  day.  Whenever  I  come  out,  I 
see  mothers  pulling  up  their  dangling  infants.” 


THE  FISHING  BIRDS 


125 


Away  to  the  horizon  stretched  the  fields,  those 
limitless,  pathless  fields  I  had  grown  to  love  so  well. 
To  my  utter  delight  we  followed  the  streams  right 
into  them.  I  had  never  seen  them  from  the  winding 
waterways,  and  at  once  I  knew  this  was  the  proper 
way  to  approach  them.  The  little  huts  faced  the 
water.  Flights  of  crooked  stone  steps  led  down  the 
banks  to  the  edge  of  the  water.  Women  stooped 
on  the  last  step,  washing  the  evening  rice.  We 
passed  two  lengths  of  the  river  which  had  been  fenced 
off  with  anchored  buoys  and  twisted  lines  of  straw 
rope.  The  stretch  of  water  inside  had  been  sewn 
with  grain.  On  and  on  we  went. 

“Are  we  going  anywhere  in  particular?”  I  asked. 
“Or  don’t  you  know  where  you  are  going?” 

“Of  course  I  do,”  said  Doctor  Grace.  “We  are 
going  to  see  the  fishing  birds.” 

“The  what?”  I  asked. 

“The  fishing  birds,”  said  Doctor  Grace.  “Wait 
till  you  see  them.  They  belong  to  the  husband  of 
one  of  our  patients.  The  women  and  children  of 
the  family  come  to  the  hospital.  Only  a  month 
ago  the  last  baby  was  born  there.” 

It  was  about  five  o’clock.  The  shadows  were 
long  and  level.  Wafts  of  the  sweet  fragrance  of 
blossoming  beans  blew  to  us  from  the  banks.  I 
recognized  the  smell ;  I  knew  the  look  of  the  plants 
—  low,  grey-green,  with  the  blossoms  close  against 
the  stems  as  if  a  host  of  purple  and  gray  butterflies 
had  cuddled  against  the  bushes  for  the  night.  Birds 
were  flying  across  the  sky,  swift  crows,  jet  black, 
against  the  sunset,  and  the  plumper  “Sau  Sau  Man 


126 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


Hau”  (the  Cook  Cook  Rice  Well  bird)  that  cries 
as  it  flies. 

We  turned  a  bend  in  the  stream  and  came  upon 
the  queerest  sight  I  have  ever  seen  in  my  life. 

The  point  of  land  where  the  streams  divide  rose 
steeply  from  the  water.  A  house  of  wicker  and 
bamboo,  larger  than  most  of  the  farmers’  houses, 
stood  in  a  grove  of  fresh  green  bamboo  trees.  The 
evening  wind,  rustling  through  their  papery  leaves, 
made  a  clear,  soft,  calling  sound.  Buffaloes  and 
chickens  roamed  along  the  shore.  On  the  lowest 
step  of  the  water  stairs  stood  a  group  of  women  and 
children  watching  a  boat  in  the  river. 

A  long  narrow  boat  swung  mid-stream.  At 
first  glance  it  looked  as  if  the  boat  were  not  floating 
on  the  water,  but  as  if  it  were  being  held  just  over 
its  surface  by  a  flock  of  black,  strong  birds  as  large  as 
eagles,  which  hovered  on  both  sides  of  it  and  flapped 
their  great  black  wings,  screaming  harshly.  Two 
men  stood  in  the  boat,  which  was  shaped  like  a  long 
scooped-out  canoe.  The  men  were  motionless  and 
silent.  The  little  group  on  the  shore  was  also  motion¬ 
less  and  silent.  Doctor  Grace  stopped  rowing.  We 
caught  the  branch  of  an  overhanging  tree  and  moored 
ourselves  at  the  bank,  and  we  too  were  motionless 
and  silent. 

Fascinated,  I  watched  the  birds.  They  screamed 
and  fluttered  their  wings.  Suddenly  one  swooped 
into  the  water,  more  plunged  after  it.  I  saw  them 
struggling  and  flapping  their  sooty  black  wings  over 
the  brown  water  as  does  a  white  sea  gull  when  it 
snatches  a  fish.  The  men  sprang  into  sudden 


THE  FISHING  BIRDS 


127 


activity.  They  pulled  the  birds  up  by  stout  strings 
tied  around  their  legs.  They  caught  the  struggling 
birds  under  their  arms  and  jerked  the  fishes  from 
their  mouths.  I  saw  a  gleam  of  silver  as  they  tossed 
the  fish  into  a  wicker  fishing  basket.  The  commotion 
among  the  birds  subsided.  They  settled  down  into 
quietness  on  the  rows  of  horizontal  perches,  making 
a  soft  blackness  on  the  water  beneath  by  the  shadow 
of  their  wings. 

“How  many?”  called  a  voice  from  the  shore. 

“Three,”  answered  one  of  the  men.  “Later, 
more,”  he  said.  “The  sun  not  yet  falls  down  the 
Hill  of  Heaven.  Wait  till  the  fish  see  not  the 
shadow  of  the  black  birds.” 

Doctor  Grace  explained  the  custom  of  cormorant 
fishing  to  me.  It  is  an  ancient  Soochow  industry. 
The  birds,  tied  by  a  stout  rope,  three  or  four  deep 
on  the  perches  which  stick  out  in  parallel  rows  from 
each  side  of  the  boat,  are  kept  very  hungry.  They 
fish,  and  the  men  steal  the  fish  from  their  beaks. 
Along  the  outer  moat  they  can  often  be  seen  fishing 
by  daylight. 

“Suppose  all  the  birds  flew  up  in  the  air  at  once?” 
I  said.  “Wouldn’t  they  carry  the  boat  right  out  of 
the  water?” 

“There  is  an  ancient  legend  about  a  fisherman 
who  was  cruel  to  his  birds,”  said  Doctor  Grace. 
“He  took  all  the  fish  from  them,  not  even  giving 
them  their  just  and  due  reward  at  the  end  of  an 
evening’s  fishing.  The  birds  were  fierce  and  lean 
and  hungry,  and  caught  fish  well.  At  night,  the 
oldest  son  of  the  fisherman  crept  out  to  the  tied 


128 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


birds  and  fed  them  stolen  morsels  of  rice  and  left¬ 
over  bits  of  fish.  This  kept  the  birds  strong.  The 
friends  of  the  fisherman  warned  him  that  he  must 
give  his  birds  more  to  eat.  Day  by  day  the  birds 
became  fiercer  and  leaner.  They  flapped  their 
black  pinions  angrily  over  their  perches  and  screamed 
harshly  whenever  the  fisherman  pulled  open  their 
beaks  and  robbed  them  of  their  fish.  Once  the 
fisherman  was  ill,  and  a  neighbor  took  the  birds  out 
fishing.  That  day  the  birds  gorged  themselves, 
and  the  neighbor  came  home  with  his  hand  scratched 
and  bleeding. 

“  ‘  Your  birds  are  not  cormorants  but  evil  spirits,’ 
he  said  to  his  friend.  ‘  If  I  were  you,  I  would  set 
them  loose  and  let  them  fly  away  in  a  great  black 
cloud  over  the  sky.’ 

“  But  the  fisherman  only  laughed  and  continued  to 
treat  the  birds  as  before.  He  grew  rich  from  his 
daily  catch.  And  at  night  his  little  son  crept  out, 
in  the  shivery  darkness,  to  feed  the  birds.  He  loved 
the  birds.  Sometimes  in  the  early  dawn  he  played 
to  them  on  his  little,  hollow  bamboo  flute.  As  his 
father  grew  richer,  he  seemed  to  think  all  the  world 
was  his,  and  he  treated  everybody  just  as  he  treated 
his  fishing  birds.  Everybody  in  the  house  grew 
afraid  of  him.  The  children  hid  away  when  they 
saw  him  coming  home  at  night,  and  the  women 
retired  into  their  own  quarters.  At  night  when  the 
birds  were  tied  in  safety,  he  sat  under  the  cypresses 
at  the  little  table  in  the  front  yard,  and  counted  his 
fish.  His  little  son  would  crouch  behind  the  shutters 
and  watch  the  long,  lithe  bodies  of  the  fish  slip 


THE  FISHING  BIRDS 


129 


through  his  father’s  hands  like  shining  pieces  of 
silver. 

“One  day  the  little  boy  was  sick.  He  had  smallpox 
and  lay  moaning  on  a  mattress  on  the  floor  in  his 
mother’s  room.  When  evening  came  he  remem¬ 
bered  the  hungry  birds,  but  he  was  afraid  to  tell  his 
mother  lest  she  feed  them  clumsily  and  his  father 
catch  her  at  it  and  beat  her.  He  tried  to  get  up, 
but  he  fell  back  fainting  on  his  mattress.  So  that 
night  the  birds  had  no  food. 

“  The  next  day  when  the  fisherman  tied  them  in 
orderly  rows  on  the  side  perches  of  the  boat,  the 
birds  were  very  still  and  lifeless.  Like  black, 
wooden  images  they  sat  motionless  and  without 
sound.  The  sun  hung  low  over  the  fields,  making 
the  shadows  ebony-black,  and  the  light  places  like 
patches  of  gold.  On  the  farther  side  of  the  boat, 
where  its  shadow  lay  over  the  water,  the  cormorants 
saw  the  swift  shadows  of  the  gliding  fishes.  They 
saw  the  instantaneous  flash  of  silver  as  the  fish 
darted  out  of  the  shadow  into  the  sunlit  water  be¬ 
fore  disappearing  from  their  sight.  Usually  this 
was  the  signal  for  diving,  but  the  birds  waited. 
Not  one  moved,  or  fluttered  a  pinion.  The  fisher¬ 
man  stood  waiting,  too,  wondering  what  had  come 
over  the  birds.  He  also  saw  the  fish  shadows  in  the 
water  like  immaterial  phantoms. 

“The  sun  slipped  slowly  down  the  vault  of  the  sky. 
A  Minne  bird  called  from  the  rice  fields,  a  star  hung 
in  the  west.  Still  the  birds  waited ;  and  the  fisher¬ 
man  waited,  too.  It  grew  night.  The  fisherman 
could  barely  see  the  mass  of  birds  on  his  right  and 


13° 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


on  his  left.  Finally  a  strip  of  the  rising  moon 
showed  scarlet  over  the  rice  fields.  It  was  the 
signal.  With  harsh  cries  the  birds  flapped  their 
wings  in  unison.  The  boat  swayed  and  rocked  on 
the  water.  A  wind  swept  along  the  water  from  the 
rice  fields  and  the  moon.  The  birds  lifted  the  boat 
free  of  the  water,  and  it  hung  like  a  cradle  between 
their  soaring  black  wings. 

“The  people  in  the  house  heard  the  screaming  of 
the  cormorants  and  the  rush  of  their  wings,  and 
they  ran  to  the  front  door.  Above  the  rice  fields 
they  saw  the  boat  carried  away.  Like  a  black 
feather,  it  floated  across  the  moon,  which  rose  up 
scarlet  and  still  over  the  water.  The  man  was  never 
seen  or  heard  of  again. 

“And  so,”  said  Doctor  Grace,  “every  cormorant 
fisher  is  careful  to  feed  his  birds  well  after  the 
catch.” 

I  wanted  to  wait  for  the  sunset,  but  it  was  not 
allowed. 

“That’s  one  of  the  penalties  of  living  in  a  walled 
city,”  said  Doctor  Grace.  “You  can  never  see  the 
sun  set  or  rise  out  in  the  fields.  You  can  only  see 
it  from  the  walls  of  the  city.  If  you  don’t  pass 
through  the  water  gates  before  sunset,  you  have  to 
stay  out  all  night,  for  at  sunset  the  portcullis  is 
lowered.” 

We  waved  our  farewell  to  the  little  group  on  the 
shore.  I  too  took  an  oar  and  we  rowed  for  dear 
life.  For,  much  as  I  would  like  to  have  stayed  out 
all  night,  it’s  not  proper !  There  would  be  some 
advantages  in  having  a  husband  ! 


THE  FISHING  BIRDS 


131 

When  we  got  back  to  the  hospital  we  found  a  boy 
there  with  a  note  for  Doctor  Grace. 

“It’s  from  the  house  of  Li,  the  jade  merchant,” 
she  said.  “They  are  expecting  a  baby  there  to¬ 
night.  Will  you  go  along  ?  ” 


XIII 


w 


THE  BRIGAND’S  KNIFE 

’E’LL  want  two  donkeys,”  said  Doctor 
Grace  to  the  boy,  and  we  flew  to  get 
ready,  changing  our  clothes  and  swallow¬ 
ing  cups  of  black  coffee.  A  nurse  handed  Doctor 
Grace  her  out-practice  bag,  already  packed  with  its 
sterilized  instruments.  The  gatekeeper  called  two 
donkey  boys,  each  with  his  own  little  donkey. 

“How  are  you  going  to  ride?”  I  asked  Doctor 
Grace. 

“I  ride  side-saddle,”  she  said,  “but  you  can  ride 
as  you  please.  The  only  real  comfort  is  to  ride 
astride,  but  so  many  of  the  older  missionaries  think 
it  isn’t  ladylike  that  I  yield  to  their  wishes.” 

Not  to  be  outdone  in  politeness,  I  jumped  up  on 
my  donkey  sidewise,  with  my  feet  dangling  in  a 
truly  ladylike  fashion  over  his  side.  A  dilapidated 
bridle  and  cross-saddle  composed  the  harness.  Ah 
Fok  poked  the  donkey  on  the  flank,  and  we  started 
off  at  a  brisk  trot.  For  some  unaccountable  reason 
I  began  to  laugh.  I  felt  too  ridiculous  bouncing 
around  on  the  back  of  the  little  animal ;  it  was  so 
tiny  that  any  man  could  have  helped  it  along  by 
kicking  the  ground.  Ah  Fok  ran  alongside,  giving 


THE  BRIGAND’S  KNIFE 


*33 


the  necessary  little,  sharp  cries  that  kept  the  donkey 
going  and  occasionally  prodding  him  with  a  pointed 
stick,  as  we  cantered  gayly  down  the  twilight 
street.  Overhead  the  crimson  sunset  lingered,  but 
in  the  narrow  street  of  the  city  it  was  almost  dusk. 
Lanterns  hung  before  the  shops.  The  dwelling 
houses  were  already  closed  and  shuttered  for  the 
night.  Across  the  court  of  a  deserted  temple, 
around  a  corner,  and  up  over  a  bridge  we  went. 

The  bridge,  like  all  Chinese  bridges,  arched  up 
at  the  center,  making  a  half  circle  over  the  surface 
of  the  water.  Up  we  went  without  slowing,  and 
off  I  slid.  It  happened  very  simply.  As  the  back 
of  the  donkey  assumed  the  steep  incline  of  forty- 
five  degrees  I  slipped  gently  backward  over  his 
tail.  Ah  Fok  rushed  to  my  rescue.  Placing  both 
his  hands  in  the  small  of  my  back,  he  pushed  with 
all  his  might  and  main  to  stop  my  avalanche.  But 
I  was  too  heavy  ;  I  went  on  sliding  over  the  donkey’s 
tail  till  I  sat  on  the  ground.  It  was  all  so  funny  I 
couldn’t  speak  for  laughing. 

“Try  cross-saddle,”  advised  Doctor  Grace. 
“They  saw  you  start  off  in  the  proper  fashion. 
Your  intentions  were  good,  but  the  only  thing  to  do 
is  to  ride  the  way  you  can  stay  on.” 

I  agreed.  Those  were  the  days  of  hobble  skirts. 
Fortunately  my  petticoat  was  an  heirloom  of  the 
past  and  possessed  frills  and  ruffles.  My  dress 
skirt  vanished  from  sight ;  it  became  a  mere  string 
around  my  waist.  But  my  petticoat  spread  out 
in  a  truly  gratifying  manner  over  my  legs.  This 
manner  of  riding  was  a  great  improvement.  The 


134 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


donkey  was  small  enough  for  me  to  grasp  com¬ 
fortably  between  my  knees,  and  I  felt  as  secure  as 
in  a  rocking  chair. 

“Missey  can  do?”  asked  Ah  Fok,  running  at  my 
side. 

“Can  do,”  I  answered. 

Sometimes  we  trotted,  but  more  often  we  galloped. 
Over  the  up  and  down  arches  of  the  bridges  we 
walked.  The  donkey  boys  had  muscles  of  wire 
and  heart  and  lungs  of  India  rubber.  Without 
the  slightest  effort  they  ran  along  beside  the 
donkeys,  shouting  and  giving  little  sharp  jabs  at 
their  flanks. 

From  the  comparative  quiet  of  darkened  streets 
we  turned  into  one  of  the  busy  thoroughfares  where 
the  shops  stood  wide  open.  The  houses  were  like 
partitions,  with  separating  walls  and  a  back  stoop 
but  without  any  front  at  all.  Unless  one  has  seen 
such  a  street,  it  is  hard  to  conceive  the  variety  and 
color  that  all  the  lighted  interiors  give.  The  eating 
shops  were  full  of  men  sitting  in  groups  around  small 
square  tables,  shoveling  in  rice  by  the  mouthful. 
They  hold  the  bowls  close  up  against  their  lips,  open 
their  mouths  to  the  fullest  extent,  and  poke  in 
great  mountains  of  fine  white  rice.  Holding  the 
bowls  at  their  mouths,  they  turn  around  and  stare 
at  the  passers-by.  Men  with  baskets  full  of  towels 
wrung  out  of  boiling,  perfumed  water  pass  among 
the  eaters,  offering  a  towel  to  each  guest.  It  is  the 
custom  to  wipe  off  one’s  face  and  head  and  neck  with 
these  towels.  The  waiter  passes  the  same  towel  to 
the  next  guest  and  so  on  until  the  towel  is  cold. 


THE  BRIGAND’S  KNIFE 


i35 


In  the  wine-shops  men  were  filling  their  tiny  tea¬ 
cups  with  hot  wine  from  metal  teapots.  In  a  large 
eat-shop  a  band  of  musicians  sat  playing  a  weird 
minor  song,  which  echoed  up  and  down  the  street 
above  the  sounds  of  evening  life.  At  a  temple  a 
funeral  was  going  on,  and  I  caught  a  swift  glimpse 
of  priests  in  robes  of  red  and  green  with  mitered 
caps.  On  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  hung  a  fringe 
of  monks  in  dirty  gray.  The  hired  mourners,  in  a 
discordant  chorus,  wailed  shrilly,  and  little  boy 
acolytes,  in  tattered,  embroidered  cassocks  of  blue 
and  red,  beat  drums.  The  whole  party  were 
evidently  enjoying  themselves  very  much. 

Opium  dens,  looking  like  sections  of  Pullman 
sleepers,  with  rows  of  closely  curtained  bunks  one 
above  the  other  and  a  narrow  passage  running  down 
the  middle,  were  squeezed  in  between  the  shops. 

The.  streets  themselves  were  filled  with  a  busy 
throng  of  men.  Dignitaries  were  carried  about  in 
stately  sedan  chairs.  Once  or  twice  I  passed  a 
chair  in  which  I  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  a 
bejeweled  woman,  slowly  fanning  herself  and  peer¬ 
ing  out  through  the  half  drawn  curtains  with  list¬ 
less  eyes.  There  were  no  women  afoot  in  that  crowd 
of  animated,  merry,  eating  humanity. 

Ah  Fok  ran  ahead,  crying  out,  “  Make  way  for  the 
Illustrious  Foreign-born  Healer.  Make  way.” 

The  clatter  of  the  donkeys’  hoofs,  the  shouting 
of  the  donkey  boys,  made  a  stir  of  interest  in 
the  mass  of  people.  The  men  squeezed  up  against 
the  walls  to  let  us  pass,  and  I  heard  murmurs  of 
surprise.  In  the  eyes  of  an  oriental,  we  were 


136 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


incomprehensible.  Even  our  own  grandmothers 
would  have  gasped !  Women,  alone,  at  that  time 
of  night,  single  and  virtuous  ! 

On  the  bridges  I  looked  down  on  the  dark  canals, 
stretching  like  black  ribbons  through  the  city, 
separating  the  opposite  houses,  but  linking  the  far 
parts  together.  Dark  and  mysterious  they  lay,  in 
silent  contrast  to  the  night  lights  of  the  city.  Over 
the  bridge,  through  the  bright  streets,  we  went, 
till  at  last  we  left  all  the  busy  quarter  of  night  life 
behind  us.  Ah  Fok  gave  a  vigorous  jab  at  my 
donkey,  and  it  burst  into  a  run.  Away  went  my 
stirrups ;  my  skirts  streamed  out  behind  me.  I 
clamped  my  legs  around  the  animal’s  body,  found  I 
was  perfectly  secure,  and  gave  myself  up  to  enjoy¬ 
ment.  Ah  Fok  was  forgotten  and  out  of  sight.  A 
long  straight  alley  lay  before  me,  where  blank  walls 
rose  on  either  side.  No  one  was  in  sight.  Faint, 
dim  starlight  made  a  deeper  darkness  of  this  narrow 
straight  alley.  No  lanterns  hung  at  the  doorposts, 
no  light  gleamed  from  under  the  threshold  of  the 
barred  doors  sunk  in  the  walls,  no  sound  came  from 
the  houses.  The  night  wind  blew  in  my  face.  My 
hairpins  fell  out,  and  my  hair  streamed  back  in  the 
wind.  Only  a  woman  knows  the  sense  of  adventure 
and  freedom  that  comes  with  loose,  flying  hair. 
China  dropped  away  from  my  consciousness,  and  I 
was  filled  with  the  elemental  delight  of  swift  motion 
toward  an  unknown  destination.  But  the  little 
donkey  knew  where  it  was  going.  Right  and  left,  we 
turned  the  corners  galloping,  with  the  thudding 
clatter  of  hoofs  the  only  sound  in  the  stillness.  We 


THE  BRIGAND’S  KNIFE 


137 


seemed  to  be  running  through  a  city  of  the  dead.  We 
met  no  one,  saw  no  one,  heard  no  one.  N 

Into  the  blue-black  night,  to  which  my  eyes  had 
grown  accustomed,  shot  a  thin  gleam  of  yellow  light, 
close  along  the  ground.  Suddenly  it  widened  to  a 
triangle,  then  vanished  utterly.  A  door  in  the 
silent  walls  had  opened  and  closed,  yet  I  heard  no 
footfalls  nor  the  chatter  of  voices.  Perhaps  some 
one,  startled  by  the  tumultuous  sound  of  our  ap¬ 
proach,  had  but  peered  out  from  curiosity.  My 
eyes  focused  themselves  on  the  spot  in  the  wall 
where  the  break  of  light  had  occurred.  Suddenly 
we  were  abreast  of  it,  then  had  left  it  behind.  A 
thrill  of  excitement  tingled  through  me.  In  that 
moment,  as  we  flashed  by,  I  saw  a  man  leaning, 
slouching  against  the  wall.  He  had  not  moved  as 
we  passed,  nor  had  I  turned  my  head  to  look  at  him. 
From  some  obscure  reason  I  had  pretended  I  had 
not  seen  him.  He  looked  as  if  he  did  not  want  to 
be  seen.  The  door  against  which  he  leaned  was 
sunken  in  the  wall  about  a  foot.  He  stood  in  that 
depression,  motionless  and  sinister.  I  just  caught 
the  dark  blur  of  a  man’s  figure  and  the  pale  patch 
of  a  face.  For  no  reason  under  the  sun  I  was  excited. 
I  looked  back  over  my  shoulder  for  Ah  Fok,  but 
no  one  was  in  sight,  not  even  the  hiding  man.  The 
alley  stretched  away  behind  me  as  dark  and  im¬ 
penetrable  and  uninhabited  as  when  I  had  dashed 
down  it.  Yet  I  felt  I  was  not  alone. 

To  my  great  relief  I  heard  the  sound  of  ricksha 
wheels,  and  I  drew  the  donkey  down  to  a  walk. 
The  shrill  voices  of  two  women  talking  came  to  me 


138 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


down  the  alley ;  the  next  moment  I  saw  the  lantern 
at  the  handlebars  of  a  ricksha.  It  threw  dancing, 
elfin  shadows  on  the  ground  and  made  the  legs  of 
the  coolie  look  tremendously  black  and  thick.  He 
was  coming  along  carelessly  at  a  jogtrot.  The 
donkey  halted  at  one  side  of  the  road,  and  I  gathered 
up  my  hair  and  began  rebraiding  it.  Two  women 
were  in  the  ricksha,  a  coolie  woman  and  her  mistress, 
who  was  sitting  on  the  lap  of  the  amah.  Some 
unusual  event  had  called  them  out,  and  they  were 
talking  in  eager  shrill  tones,  the  ricksha  man  entering 
into  their  conversation  when  he  saw  fit.  They  gave 
a  little  shriek  when  they  saw  me,  and  craned  their 
necks  to  stare  back  at  me. 

The  coming  of  that  flickering  lantern  made  me  feel 
suddenly  forlorn.  The  night  loomed  black  and 
threatening  around  me.  I  had  no  idea  where  I 
was,  I  didn’t  know  how  to  return.  The  donkey  had 
lost  his  initiative ;  he  didn’t  seem  to  know  any 
more  than  I  did.  The  voices  died  away  down  the 
alley.  The  bobbing  gleams  of  light  were  quite  gone, 
so  was  my  thrill  and  exhilaration.  I  felt  utterly 
deserted  and  alone.  I  also  felt  that  Edward  had  been 
very  remiss  to  let  me  go  off  alone  to  Soochow !  He 
might  have  known  something  would  happen  to  me ! 
Then  I  couldn’t  stand  it  any  longer. 

I  dug  my  heels  into  the  donkey  and  turned  him 
back  down  the  alley  in  the  direction  from  which  we 
had  come,  for  I  wanted  to  catch  up  with  that  lighted 
lantern  and  those  voices.  The  donkey  sensed  my 
meaning,  and  quite  resignedly  he  trotted  along  back. 
Around  the  next  corner  I  caught  sight  of  the  friendly 


THE  BRIGAND’S  KNIFE 


i39 


light  shining  on  the  legs  of  the  ricksha  man  and  on 
the  spokes  of  the  ricksha  wheels  and  making  a  little 
arc  of  light  on  the  pavement.  It  was  a  wonderful 
splash  of  light. 

Suddenly  something  happened  to  it :  it  was 
dashed  out  of  existence.  A  wild  clamor  broke  out 
in  front  of  me.  The  women  screamed  shrilly,  their 
voices  echoing  back  and  forth  across  the  alley  from 
wall  to  wall,  like  balls  bouncing  to  and  fro.  I  heard 
the  low  guttural  growl  of  a  man.  Then  the  ricksha 
man  rushed  past  me,  yelling.  A  woman  screamed 
in  a  mounting  shriek  of  terror,  and  I  heard  a  stir 
of  doors  opening  and  closing  on  the  other  side  of  the 
walls,  but  no  one  came  out  into  the  alley. 

I  was  deathly  afraid,  but  I  couldn’t  stay  there 
and  hear  two  women  murdered,  so  I  kicked  the 
donkey,  and  we  clattered  towards  the  fray.  But 
after  all  it  wasn’t  I  who  saved  the  day,  it  was  Ah 
Fok,  the  donkey  boy.  Running  and  shouting,  he 
turned  into  the  alley  and  bore  down  upon  us. 

The  mistress  had  been  throwm  out  on  the  ground 
by  the  sudden  desertion  of  the  ricksha  man.  A 
heavy  figure  stooped  over  her,  and  the  amah  was 
pounding  and  pulling  at  this  figure.  Ah  Fok  and  I 
made  a  goodly  din  in  the  stillness.  The  robber 
was  startled.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  looked  up  and 
down  the  alley,  and  saw  foes  approaching  in  both 
directions.  Quickly  he  leaned  against  the  sunken 
door  in  the  wall,  and  vanished  from  our  sight. 

Ridiculous  and  infantile,  more  like  a  hopping 
shadow  than  a  rescuer,  Ah  Fok  sprang  towards  the 
prostrate  woman.  I  was  already  off  my  donkey 


14° 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


and  kneeling  beside  her.  The  amah,  in  shrill 
excitement,  pulled  her  to  her  feet. 

“My  rings  and  my  bracelets,”  wailed  the  woman. 
“He  has  stolen  my  jewels.” 

With  a  swift  movement  the  amah’s  hands  went  to 
the  ears  of  her  mistress. 

“He  had  no  time,”  said  the  woman.  “I  felt 
the  blade  of  a  knife  cold  against  my  cheek,  but  then 
the  foreign  woman  cried  out,  and  the  man  withheld 
his  hand.” 

The  amah  was  straightening  her  mistress’  clothes 
and  loudly  bewailing  their  misfortune.  Ah  Fok, 
panting,  leaned  against  the  donkey,  and  I  patted  his 
hands.  What  funny  things  we  do  when  we  are 
upset !  Neither  of  us  spoke.  I  heard  the  sliding 
home  of  heavy  bolts  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 
At  the  end  of  the  alley  I  saw  a  growing  glimmer  of 
light.  It  was  the  ricksha  man,  coming  back  with  a 
friend.  I  sat  on  my  donkey  while  they  all  had  a 
“talkee  talk.”  Ah  Fok,  satisfied  as  to  my  safety, 
joined  in  the  parley,  but  no  gate  opened  in  the  blank 
walls,  and  no  head  appeared  to  see  what  was  up. 
That  struck  me  as  queer.  I  found  I  was  shaking, 
or  rather  that  the  beating  of  my  heart  was  shaking 
me.  Also  I  was  in  a  dripping  perspiration.  At  last 
the  Chinese  turned  and  went  off  down  the  alley  in 
the  direction  from  which  they  had  come.  Ah  Fok 
tied  a  leading  string  to  the  donkey’s  bridle.  The 
noise  of  the  rickshas  died  away.  In  the  alley  it  was 
again  utterly  dark  and  silent.  A  strip  of  starry  sky 
roofed  the  space  between  the  houses.  Taking  a 
last  look  at  the  heavy  wooden  door  sunk  in  the  wall, 


THE  BRIGAND’S  KNIFE 


141 

I  noticed  a  faint  glimmer  of  light  near  the  threshold. 

“What’s  that?”  I  asked  Ah  Fok. 

He  stooped  and  picked  up  a  knife  and  held  it  out 
to  me.  It  had  a  wide  bright  blade,  and  dusty  red 
spots  mottled  its  edge.  I  looked  at  it  curiously. 
The  handle  was  bluntly  round  and  dark  from  much 
holding  in  hot,  sweaty  hands.  I  wanted  to  take  it 
home  as  a  souvenir.  I  wanted  to  show  it  to  Edward. 
I  wanted  it  very  much,  but  so  did  Ah  Fok.  His 
whole  body  trembled  with  fearful  entreaty.  I 
suddenly  became  convinced  that  the  robber  was 
crouching  on  the  other  side  of  that  barred  door, 
listening  with  every  nerve  of  his  body.  I  almost 
fancied  that  Ah  Fok  turned  and  spoke  so  that  his 
voice  and  words  should  carry  to  any  one  listening  on 
the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

“Belong  bad  knife,”  he  said.  “Suppose  Missey 
take  homeside,  some  night  knife  can  walk,  can  kill. 
Throw  away.” 

Ah  Fok  held  out  his  hands  for  the  knife,  but  I 
still  turned  it  over  and  over  in  my  fingers,  loath  to 
relinquish  it.  Ah  Fok,  searching  in  his  belt,  drew 
out  a  box  of  matches.  He  lit  two  or  three  at  once. 
The  sudden  flame  made  the  scene  weird  and  un¬ 
canny,  throwing  a  great  distorted  shadow  of  us  on  the 
smooth  surface  of  the  opposite  wall.  The  donkey 
was  like  some  monstrous  beast  while  Ah  Fok  and  I 
bent  like  two  gnomes  over  the  blade  in  my  hands. 
At  one  end  of  the  handle,  cut  deeply  into  the  wood 
and  painted  red,  were  two  Chinese  characters 
meaning  “White  Wolf.” 

“Bah  Long”  (White  Wolf),  shouted  Ah  Fok. 


142 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


He  caught  the  knife  from  my  hands  and  threw  it 
over  the  wall.  We  stood  immobile  till  we  heard  it 
clang  on  the  pavement  of  the  garden  within  the 
wall.  From  over  the  wall  came  the  sound  of  stealthy 
motions  and  a  just  audible  sigh  of  content. 

Ah  Fok  too  was  satisfied.  He  pulled  at  the  rope 
on  the  bridle  and  we  walked  sedately  back,  down 
that  long,  narrow,  sinister  alley  where  all  the  houses 
were  dark  and  barred  and  silent,  where  no  glimmer 
of  light  shone  through  the  chinks  in  the  walls  and 
doorways.  The  way  back  was  long  and  tortuous. 
I  had  a  suspicion  that  Ah  Fok  was  purposely  twisting 
this  way  and  that  so  that  I  should  utterly  lose 
what  sense  of  direction  I  had,  so  that  I  should  never, 
by  any  chance,  find  that  barred  door  in  the  blind 
wall. 

We  crossed  a  high  bridge.  The  dark  canal  was 
dotted  with  the  pinpoint,  white  reflections  of  the 
tranquil  stars  overhead.  With  soft  gurgles,  the 
water  rushed  and  swished  against  the  posts  of  the 
bridge.  Something  like  the  curved  blade  of  a 
knife  stuck  in  the  ooze  on  the  shore.  I  was  never 
sure  about  that  crescent  bit  of  light.  It  might  have 
been  metal,  but  it  might  have  been  merely  the 
iridescent  gleam  of  a  stagnant  pool  that  took  shape 
and  meaning  from  our  heated  imaginations. 

“A  White  Wolf  knife,”  I  whispered,  pointing  at 
the  bit  of  silver  light. 

Ah  Fok  shivered. 

“Bah  Long,”  he  whispered,  his  teeth  chattering. 
The  name  of  the  famous  brigand  was  yet  more 
fearful  than  the  fear  of  devils.  Ah  Fok  jabbed 


THE  BRIGAND’S  KNIFE 


M3 

the  donkey  fiercely,  and  we  plunged  down  the 
steep,  irregular  steps  of  the  high  bridge.  The 
donkey  slipped  to  his  haunches  and  recovered  his 
footing  with  a  jerk,  but  Ah  Fok,  as  if  pursued  by  a 
hundred  evil  spirits,  urged  the  donkey  along,  regard¬ 
less  of  pitfalls.  His  sharp  ringing  cries  echoed 
shrilly  up  and  down  the  empty  street.  We  did 
not  slow  down  till  we  caught  up  with  Doctor  Grace. 

We  found  her  dismounted,  waiting  in  front  of  a 
massive  door,  with  a  group  of  amahs  and  coolies 
around  her.  Lanterns  hung  on  the  gateposts.  A 
lighted  doorway  threw  floods  of  light  down  the  path 
to  the  gate.  From  within  the  house  came  the  sound 
of  a  woman  moaning. 

“Where  have  you  been?”  she  asked.  “I  was 
about  to  turn  back  to  hunt  for  you.” 

“The  donkey  ran  away,  and  I  got  lost,”  I  answered, 
“we  had  quite  an  adventure.”  I  explained,  telling 
her  all  the  details.  Doctor  Grace  took  my  news 
seriously. 

“I’m  afraid  we’ll  have  to  discharge  Ah  Fok,”  she 
said.  “He  came  to  us  without  a  recommendation. 
Once  before  his  donkey  has  run  away  in  that  direc¬ 
tion.  That  is  a  very  dangerous  part  of  the  city. 
Even  in  peaceful  times  it  is  unsafe,  but  since  the 
terrorism  of  the  White  Wolf  brigands  it  is  really 
dangerous.  A  nest  of  them  are  reported  to  be  in 
hiding  somewhere  over  there  near  one  of  the  gates. 
Just  last  week  one  was  shot  by  a  sentry  while  he 
was  trying  to  escape  over  the  wall  by  night. 
Robberies  are  frequent,  but  the  people  are  so  afraid 
that  they  do  nothing.” 


144 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“It  wasn’t  Ah  Fok’s  fault,”  I  said.  “I  think  I 
rather  enjoyed  it.” 

Something  within  me,  utterly  primitive  and  un¬ 
tamed,  exulted  in  the  close  danger,  in  my  dip  into 
the  days  of  lawlessness  and  disorder  and  secrecy. 
My  blood  tingled  through  my  veins.  I  wanted  to  go 
back  to  the  hidden  world  of  violence,  to  cast  off  my 
tame,  demure  shackles  and  be  an  Amazon.  I  was 
feeling  very  wild  and  reckless.  I  had  not  known 
before  that  each  individual  harbors  all  the  past  of 
the  race  within  his  own  inner  consciousness,  battened 
down,  clamped  under  by  the  etiquette  of  civilization. 
It  had  only  needed  the  runaway,  galloping  hoofs 
of  a  little  donkey  and  the  gleam  of  a  knife  along  the 
wall  to  hurl  me  back  into  the  aeons  of  the  past. 

But  Doctor  Grace  guessed  none  of  this.  Out¬ 
wardly  as  quiet  and  well  behaved  as  she,  I  walked 
through  the  gate  of  the  House  of  Li,  the  Jeweller 
in  Jade. 


XIV 


THE  WIVES  OF  LI 

S  Doctor  Grace  led  the  way  quickly  into  the 
house,  I  caught  but  a  fleeting  glimpse  of 


JL  A.  the  dark  spaces  of  the  garden.  Great 
rocks  and  tall  cypresses  and  the  gentle  sound  of 
water  filled  the  shadows.  In  the  guest  hall  we  were 
met  by  Li  Sien  Sang.  He  was  a  short  man  with  a 
picture-book  Chinese  moustache,  very  fine  and  thin, 
with  the  ends  drooping  down  on  each  side  of  his 
mouth  like  a  pair  of  walrus  tusks.  The  skin  on  his 
cheeks  was  pulled  tightly  across  the  malar  bones 
underneath,  giving  him  a  look  of  emaciation.  His 
manners  were  very  courtly  and  his  English  good. 
He  made  us  welcome  and  turned  us  over  to  the 
women  of  the  house. 

The  guest  hall  was  large  and  handsomely  fur¬ 
nished.  A  beautiful  scroll  hung  on  the  back  wall  of 
the  room  over  the  table  of  ceremonial  worship. 
Two  tall  candlesticks,  of  a  metal  resembling  pewter, 
on  which  thick  red  candles  were  spiked  and  flaring, 
stood  on  each  corner  of  the  table.  A  thin  curl  of 
incense  from  a  brass  griffin  scented  the  room.  Along 
the  two  walls,  in  rows  of  rigid  orderliness,  stood  the 
guest  tables  and  chairs,  as  if  placed  in  readiness  for 
ghostly  visitors.  The  great  divan  of  honor  was  of 


146 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


finely  woven  rattan  and  carved  redwood.  My 
restless  eyes  were  roving  around  the  apartment 
while  Doctor  Grace  and  Mr.  Li  were  talking.  Here 
all  was  the  height  of  formality.  Each  step  of  a 
guest  was  preordained,  each  formula  of  greeting 
ancestrally  old  and  hallowed.  Here  it  is,  in  the 
great  guest  hall,  that  the  westerner  is  baffled.  He 
comes  with  a  direct  purpose,  a  direct  question  in  his 
mind,  and  is  enwebbed  by  the  delicate,  shimmering 
fabric  of  oriental  politeness.  To  us,  it  will  ever  be  a 
mystery,  one  of  the  essential,  lasting  mysteries  of 
existence,  deeper  than  the  evanescent  customs  of 
civilization,  buried  in  the  fiber  of  the  race. 

But  our  errand  carried  us  past  this  jealously 
guarded  room  of  ceremonies,  into  the  primitive 
openness  of  life,  where  the  Chinese  are  more  aston¬ 
ishingly  communicative  than  we. 

The  mother  of  Li,  an  autocratic  old  dame,  still 
vigorous  in  spite  of  her  advanced  years,  led  us  up 
the  stairs  into  the  apartment  of  the  latest  bride. 
Too  much  power  throughout  a  long  life  had  left 
her  with  an  ungovernable  temper.  This  was  her 
reputation  in  Soochow,  and  her  face  showed  as 
much.  Servants  and  amahs  clustered  about  us. 
Upstairs  the  rooms  of  the  women’s  quarters  were 
furnished  with  the  same  elegance  as  the  guest  hall. 
We  were  led  through  one  room  after  another  in 
which  stood  beds  of  carved  redwood  and  heavy, 
round,  redwood  tables,  with  deeply  carved  dragons 
sprawling  along  the  edge.  The  servants  laughed  and 
whispered  and  nudged  each  other,  as  is  the  way  of 
servants  in  the  Orient.  In  spite  of  the  customs  of  a 


THE  WIVES  OF  LI 


i47 


higher  caste,  they  show  a  strange  democratic  free¬ 
dom  of  behavior  and  speech. 

At  last  we  came  to  the  room  of  the  fourth  wife 
of  Li.  A  young  girl  was  propped  up  on  a  bed,  lying 
back  against  the  shoulders  of  her  body  servant. 

“Already  three  days  she  has  not  slept,”  said  the 
mother-in-law.  “The  noise  of  her  groans  disturbs 
me.  I  have  not  much  hope  that  the  child  is  a  boy. 
I  said  as  much  to  my  son  when  he  married  her.  She 
was  pretty,  but  not  of  a  suitable  house.  So  to-day 
I  said  to  my  son,  ‘call  the  foreign-born  healer  and 
let  this  noise  be  stopped.’  ” 

The  old  dowager  walked  over  to  the  bed  on  her 
tiny  stilt-like  feet.  Her  silken  trousers  flapped 
against  her.  Her  jacket  was  buttoned  on  her  right 
shoulder  with  round  jade  studs,  as  large  as  a  robin’s 
egg  and  of  that  wonderful,  clear,  prized  color  of 
fresh  spinach.  Her  hair  ornaments  were  jade  and 
pearl.  The  edge  of  her  headband  was  incrusted 
with  pearls.  In  spite  of  her  advanced  age,  she  was 
a  graceful  and  imposing  figure.  I  saw  the  other 
women  watching  her  anxiously,  as  with  her  slow, 
wooden-kneed,  mincing  step  she  crossed  the  room 
and  stood  by  the  bed  of  the  fourth  wife.  A  not 
unkindly  expression  crossed  her  face. 

“If  it  is  a  boy,”  she  said,  “I  will  make  you  my 
son’s  Great  Wife.  I  will  give  you  jade  rings  and 
pearl  earrings  and  new  clothes  of  satin  and  em¬ 
broidery.  But  if  it  is  a  girl,  Oh !  then,  thou  un¬ 
fortunate  woman,  go  hide  thy  face  from  me  forever. 
You  will  be  fit  only  to  be  cast  forth  on  the 
street.” 


148 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


The  picture  is  cut  into  my  brain  —  the  square 
Chinese  room  with  its  curtained,  carved  bed,  the 
center  of  all  eyes ;  along  the  walls  and  in  the  door¬ 
way  the  faces  of  the  curious,  peeping  women,  some 
in  silks  and  some  in  the  common  blue  cloth  of  amahs ; 
the  figure  of  the  mother-in-law,  aloof  and  scornful 
at  the  corner  of  the  bride’s  bed.  From  the  recess 
of  the  bed  looked  the  wide,  drawn  eyes  of  the  girl. 
Her  face  was  white  with  pain,  yet  the  fear  that  lurked 
in  her  glance  was  more  than  the  fear  of  physical 
suffering ;  it  was  the  helpless,  haunting  fear  of  fate. 
This  was  the  night  of  her  ordeal.  All  her  future  life 
lay  in  the  balance.  Should  it  be  happiness  and  honor 
and  favor,  or  dishonor  and  drudgery  ?  Already  the 
answer  lay  decided  within  her.  She  had  carried 
it  around  with  her  wherever  she  went,  month  after 
month,  while  her  very  soul  was  torn  with  suspense. 
Was  it  a  girl,  or  was  it  a  boy?  Her  agony  of  body 
was  nothing  to  her  agony  of  mind. 

She  was  dressed  in  bridal  crimson,  and  her  hands 
were  covered  with  rings.  From  the  canopy  of  her 
bed  hung  countless  balls  and  tassels,  the  supposed 
bringers  of  sons.  Over  her  shoulder  peered  the 
curious  eyes  of  her  amah.  For  three  days  this 
woman  too  had  shared  the  vigil  of  her  mistress. 

“  Do  you  want  me,”  I  asked  Doctor  Grace. 

“Not  just  now,”  she  said.  “Why  don’t  you  go 
and  lie  down,  and  I  will  call  you  when  it  is  time  for 
the  anesthetic.” 

They  led  me  away  to  the  chamber  adjoining  and 
offered  me  a  bed.  I  was  tired,  and  I  knew  that  a 
long  wait,  probably  most  of  the  night,  lay  before 


THE  WIVES  OF  LI 


149 


me,  so  I  lay  down.  All  the  bedclothes  were  silk. 
A  cover  of  pink  padded  satin  was  spread  on  the 
mattress  of  woven  coconut  fiber.  A  little,  wooden, 
neckpillow  was  placed  under  my  head.  A  neatly 
rolled  up  pile  of  comforts  lay  along  one  side  of  the 
bed,  ready  for  use  —  turquoise  blue,  imperial  yellow, 
peach-blossom  pink,  all  in  the  softest  fabrics.  On  a 
round  table  near  the  bedside  stood  two  water  pipes 
of  silver. 

I  lay  down  and  pretended  to  sleep,  but  my  mind 
was  in  too  much  of  a  whirl  to  compose  itself.  Amahs, 
carrying  wooden  pails  of  hot  water,  passed  through 
the  room,  spilling  puddles  on  the  bare  floor.  The 
Chinese  have  evolved  a  strange,  practical  utility  in 
their  furniture.  Scalding  water  neither  hurts  the 
varnish  of  the  tables,  nor  the  bare  boards  of  their 
floors.  In  the  next  room  I  heard  Doctor  Grace’s 
quiet  voice.  The  groaning  ceased,  and  soon  Doctor 
Grace  came  in  on  tiptoe. 

“She  is  sleeping,”  she  said.  “I  have  given  her  a 
sedative.  She  was  quite  worn  out.  This  is  a 
fiendish  method,  to  keep  the  woman  awake  for 
days  and  days.  Poor  thing !  She  is  only  eighteen 
and  scared  to  death  of  the  old  mother-in-law.” 

The  doctor  went  back  to  her  vigil,  and  I  lay  with 
my  eyes  open,  staring  at  the  ceiling.  Another 
woman  came  in  and  stood  beside  me.  She  was 
about  the  age  of  Li  and  wore  very  handsome  clothes. 
Her  hair,  though  thin,  was  still  black,  and,  in  the 
uncanny  fashion  of  the  Chinese,  her  scalp  had 
been  blackened  so  that  her  baldness  did  not  show. 
She  took  up  the  pipe  that  stood  on  the  table,  opened 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


iS° 

the  lid  of  the  tobacco  box,  and  picked  up  a  tiny  pinch 
with  the  little,  silver  pinchers  that  stood  in  a  slim 
stand  at  the  side.  She  poked  this  little  pinch  of 
tobacco  into  the  pipe  and  drew  two  whiffs.  Then 
she  emptied  out  the  smoked  tobacco  and  repeated 
the  process.  She  was  leaning  against  the  table, 
one  satin,  trousered  leg  crossed  over  the  other,  in  a 
pose  very  graceful  and  natural.  She  smoked  at 
least  five  minutes  in  silence,  her  eyes  on  the  little 
instrument  of  pleasure.  Her  hands  were  laden 
with  rings,  and  heavy  bracelets  of  carved  gold  set 
with  jade  and  sapphire  clasped  her  wrists.  The 
little  pipe  itself,  with  its  carved  dragons,  and  dangling 
silken  tassels  of  peach  pink,  was  utterly  alluring. 
Graceful,  daintily  feminine,  she  intrigued  my  fancy. 
I  wanted  to  know  what  she  was  thinking,  what  she 
had  been  thinking  all  her  life,  whether  she  liked  it  or 
not,  what  thrilled  her,  what  bored  her,  what  she 
thought  about  babies  and  men.  I  wanted  to  bridge 
the  gulf  between  us  and  to  have  her  talk  to  me 
frankly.  I  thought  of  the  women  I  knew  at  home, 
women  of  fifty  or  thereabouts  and,  to  my  mind’s 
eye,  none  of  them  presented  the  picture  of  mystery 
and  charm  this  Chinese  woman  did  smoking  her 
silver  pipe. 

I  had  been  watching  her  ever  since  she  came  into 
the  room.  She  must  have  felt  my  staring,  for  she 
turned  and  smiled  at  me.  This  was  my  first  sight 
of  her  full  face,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  an 
aristocratic  Chinese  beauty.  She  had  the  delicate 
oval  face  of  classical  beauty,  and  a  smooth  skin  of 
almost  occidental  fairness,  a  skin  that  had  never 


THE  WIVES  OF  LI 


151 

been  sunburned  or  wind-burned.  She  was,  more¬ 
over,  very  carefully  rouged  and  painted.  Her  eye¬ 
brows  were  drawn  in  a  thin,  fine,  black  arch  over 
her  sleepy  eyes.  The  eyes  themselves  were  faintly 
almond  shaped  and  drowsy  lidded.  Her  under  lip 
was  carmined,  but  not  the  upper.  Hoops  of  pearl 
hung  in  her  ears,  lustrous  against  the  soft  bloom  of 
her  cheeks. 

Here  was  a  woman,  past  master  in  all  that  I  was 
ignorant  of,  a  creature  that  had  made  of  herself  a 
mysterious  thing  of  subtle  charm.  How  did  she  do 
it  ?  Was  she  satisfied  ? 

I  sat  up  and  spoke  to  her  in  English  for  I  was  sure 
that  all  the  women  in  such  a  house  would  be  educated. 
Nor  was  I  mistaken.  She  spoke  it  beautifully,  writh 
only  the  hint  of  a  delicious  accent.  I  remembered 
that  personal  questions  are  the  height  of  oriental 
politeness,  so  I  began  asking  them. 

“  I’m  not  sleepy,”  I  said,  “  I  might  as  well  get  up, 
if  you  will  stay  and  talk  to  me.  Does  it  not  wear 
you  out  staying  up  so  many  nights?” 

“Oh,  no,”  she  said,  “I  like  to  stay  up  when  there 
is  a  child  coming.  It  is  the  proper  place  of  the  first 
wife.  I  have  seen  almost  twenty  babies  born  in 
this  house  since  I  came  here  thirty  years  ago.” 

“Tell  me  about  them,”  I  said.  “Tell  me  about 
yourself.” 

Li  Ta  Ta  smiled  with  pleasure.  “If  you  like  to 
listen,  I  will  gladly  tell  you,”  she  said.  “  It  is  an 
event  to  me  to  talk  to  a  young  foreign-born  woman. 
Sometimes,  from  our  latticed  window  on  the  moat, 
we  see  them  coming  to  the  home  of  the  Doctrine' 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


152 

Sowers  near  the  wall.  They  ride  by  so  gaily  in  their 
uncurtained  sedan  chairs.  Long  ago  I  used  to 
envy  them,  but  I  don’t  any  more.  Now  I  think 
sometimes  they  don’t  understand  the  essentials  of 
being  a  woman.  I  have  been  satisfied  with  my 
life ;  that  is,  I  am  now  satisfied.  Once  I  was  un¬ 
happy,  because  I  had  no  sons,  but  that  has  all 
passed. 

“Tell  me  about  it?”  I  urged. 

“From  the  beginning?”  asked  Li  Ta  Ta. 

“Yes,  from  the  beginning,”  I  said. 

She  was  evidently  pleased  that  I  was  interested. 
What  she  told  me  was  like  a  fairy  story,  so  improbable 
and  unreal  it  seemed  to  my  western  mind. 

“My  father  was  head  of  the  Jade  Cutters’  Guild,” 
she  said.  “  In  his  youth  he  made  a  trip  to  America. 
When  he  came  home,  he  said  to  my  mother  that 
all  his  sons  and  daughters  should  be  educated  in  the 
Western  learning.  At  that  time,  the  girls’  school 
was  just  founded  and  had  only  a  dozen  pupils. 
When  I  was  twelve  years  old,  my  father  enrolled 
me  as  one  of  the  first  scholars.  I  was  very  happy 
there.  I  wanted  to  be  a  Christian,  but  my  father 
would  not  allow  it.  Though  in  some  respects  he 
was  very  advanced,  in  matters  of  religion  he  was 
very  conservative.  We  were  devout  Buddhists. 
Memories  of  Christmas  festivals  at  school  and 
Buddhist  feasts  lie  side  by  side  in  my  heart.  In  my 
childish  mind  I  easily  reconciled  the  beliefs  of  my 
loved  ones,  of  my  family,  and  of  my  teachers.  The 
color  of  something  gentle  and  sweet  has  always 
lain  on  the  world  for  me,  in  spite  of  all  the  bitterness 


THE  WIVES  OF  LI 


153 


I  have  eaten.  At  sixteen  I  was  married.  Even 
after  all  the  long,  benumbing  length  of  years,  I  can 
still  taste  the  salt  tears  on  my  lips  as  I  sat  shrouded 
in  my  bridal  veil  and  was  carried  from  the  house  of 
my  parents  to  the  home  of  my  bridegroom’s  parents. 
Such  utter,  sweeping  desolation  engulfed  me !  I 
had  a  gorgeous  bridal  procession.  My  chair  was 
lacquered  in  crimson  and  gilded  with  many  dragons. 
My  clothes  were  stiff  with  embroidery  and  pearls. 
Eight  men  took  turns  carrying  me  through  the 
streets.  But  I  sat  within,  crying.  Thankful  I 
was  for  my  veil.  I  was  lonely  and  frightened  to 
death.  Wealthy  as  was  the  house  of  Li,  my  mother- 
in-law  had  already  established  a  reputation  for 
tyranny  and  cruelty.  She  beat  a  slave  to  death. 
She  cut  off  her  amah’s  forefinger  because  she  dropped 
a  favorite  vase.  No  wonder  I  sat  in  my  bridal  dress, 
crying  bitter  tears  behind  my  veil  of  pearls,  under 
my  coronet  of  blue  kingfisher  feathers.  I  wished  I 
could  die. 

“Within  nine  months  my  baby  was  born.  It  was 
a  girl.  My  cup  of  bitterness  ran  over.  Then,  little 
by  little,  I  loved  the  baby.  It  was  so  soft  and  round 
and  rosy.  I  would  take  it  away  from  the  amah  and 
run  off  to  a  corner  in  the  garden,  and  play  with  it 
and  sing  to  it  and  kiss  it.  I  was  in  disgrace  in  the 
household  because  I  had  borne  a  girl,  but,  in  those 
days,  there  was  still  hope.  My  husband  was  good 
to  me.  In  my  heart  I  was  sick  that  the  baby  was 
not  a  boy,  but  by-and-by  I  grew  happy  again.  In 
the  winter,  it  was  warm  in  the  sunshine  in  the  walled 
garden  where  I  watched  the  lizards  crawl  out  to 


154 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


sun  themselves.  From  the  top  window  I  looked  up 
at  the  clouds  and  saw  the  line  of  the  wall  marching 
across  the  sky.  On  feast  days  we  were  carried 
forth  in  our  sedan  chairs  to  the  temples  or  the  graves. 
My  husband  was  proud  of  my  foreign  accomplish¬ 
ments. 

“With  the  passing  of  each  year  came  a  baby 
girl.  The  temper  of  my  mother-in-law  grew  worse. 
Three  of  the  little  girls  died.  She  rejoiced  when 
they  died,  and  I  hated  her.  Then,  one  day,  my 
husband  told  me  he  had  arranged  to  take  a  second 
wife  to  bear  him  sons.  He  said  I  was  accursed  and 
would  only  bear  girls. 

“For  days,  I  hid  in  the  garden.  My  old  amah, 
the  one  who  had  nursed  all  my  babies,  brought  me 
food  from  the  house.  I  heard  the  sounds  of  the 
wedding  preparations.  Finally  pride  made  me  go 
back,  and  I  took  my  rightful  place  as  the  Great 
First  Wife.  I  meant  to  hate  the  Small  Wife,  just  as 
my  mother-in-law  hated  me ;  it  was  my  perquisite 
to  hate  her  and  make  her  life  a  misery  to  her.  But 
I  loved  her  from  the  first.  She  was  young,  and  we 
were  like  sisters.  Together  we  escaped  from  my 
mother-in-law’s  presence  and  sat  in  the  garden. 
My  amah  bored  a  chink  in  the  wall  at  the  further 
end,  and  we  took  turns  looking  out  at  the  world  of 
passers-by. 

“When  May  Li’s  first  girl  was  born,  I  had  already 
three  living  and  three  dead  children.  Not  nursing 
my  children  myself,  I  had  a  child  every  year.  May 
Li  was  too  discouraged  to  get  well.  She  lay  in  bed 
and  grew  white  and  pale.  She  didn’t  love  her  baby 


THE  WIVES  OF  LI 


1 55 

girl  as  I  had  loved  mine.  One  day  she  said  to  me, 
‘Ask  thy  husband  if  we  may  go  to  the  temple  to 
pray  before  the  Goddess  Kwannon.  We  will  take 
the  children  and  lunch  and  spend  the  day.’ 

“That  night  I  beguiled  my  husband,  and  he  prom¬ 
ised  to  get  us  permission  from  his  mother.  The 
next  day  was  clear  and  calm  with  a  warm  sun 
shining.  It  was  springtime  and,  even  in  the  city, 
the  peach  trees  were  blooming,  and  the  little  patches 
of  yellow  rape  were  like  carpets  of  gold.  Four 
chairs  and  bearers  were  prepared  for  us.  I  took 
my  three  daughters,  Ling-Di  (leading  a  brother), 
A-doo,  (the  greatest),  and  San  Me  (the  third  sister) 
with  me.  A-doo  sat  in  the  chair  with  my  amah, 
Ling-Di  sat  on  my  lap,  and  San  Me  crouched  at  my 
feet.  May  Li  got  into  her  chair  alone,  the  amah  in 
another,  with  the  baby  Ai  Ling  in  her  arms.  The 
cook  had  put  up  a  nice  lunch  for  us,  which  the 
amahs  carried  in  two  wicker  baskets.” 

Li  Ta  Ta  paused  and  blew  a  little  whiff  of  smoke 
and  looked  at  me  questioningly.  “Are  you  sure  you 
care  to  hear  all  this?”  she  asked. 

I  eagerly  assured  her  that  I  did. 

“You  see,”  she  said,  “the  mind  of  a  Chinese  woman 
is  filled  with  all  manner  of  foolishness.  It  concerns 
itself,  not  with  the  big  things  of  life,  but  with  each 
little  happening  of  our  days  with  our  children.  It 
treasures  them  up,  to  think  over  by  and  by  when  the 
children  are  gone  from  us.  I  even  remember  the 
clothes  my  daughters  wore  that  day  of  long  ago. 
It  is  long  since  I  lost  them.  They  have  all  married 
and  are  gone  to  the  houses  of  their  mothers-in-law. 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


156 

But  on  that  bright  day,  so  long  ago,  they  were  still 
mine.  They  were  dressed  in  their  best  clothes, 
bright  blue  and  pink  and  the  baby  in  red.  I  couldn’t 
help  being  happy.  But  May  Li  was  sad.  She  had 
never  resigned  herself  to  her  fate  as  had  I.  She 
had  never  carried  her  little  baby  in  her  arms ;  she 
seemed  to  hate  her.  So  she  sat  alone  in  her  sedan 
chair.  The  streets  were  full  of  interest  to  me  and 
to  my  children.  They  pushed  their  heads  out  of 
the  curtains  and  exclaimed  at  everything.  Only  A- 
doo  had  seen  the  canals  before ;  to  the  other  two 
water  was  something  new  and  strange.  Ling  Di 
asked  if  one  could  walk  on  it.  We  were  on  our  way 
to  the  Temple  of  Kwannon  with  her  thousand  hands 
of  mercy.  The  temple  is  on  one  side  of  a  deserted 
square.  It  used  to  be  a  busy  marketplace,  but  the 
new  market  has  taken  away  most  of  the  trade.  Our 
bearers  put  us  down  before  the  steps  of  the  temple 
and  sat  down  in  the  shade  to  rest,  while  the  children 
ran  about  gaily.  At  one  corner  of  the  square  stood 
an  old  pagoda  with  its  paintings  faded  and  its 
bells  gone.  A  scribe  sat  at  a  low  table  under  a 
willow  in  the  shade,  ready  to  write  charms.  A  few 
candy  shops  stretched  along  in  a  row.  We  let  the 
children  wander  at  will  with  the  amahs.  Only  A- 
doo  held  to  my  hand.  May  Li  took  her  baby  from 
the  arms  of  the  amah  and  held  it  close  against  her 
heart.  I  wondered  if  she  had  loved  it  all  along  and 
had  only  been  pretending  not  to  care  for  it  on  account 
of  the  mother-in-law.  We  went  up  to  the  temple 
steps  —  they  were  low  stone  steps  worn  from  many 
feet.  At  the  candle  stand  we  bought  many  red 


THE  WIVES  OF  LI 


iS7 


candles  and  packages  of  incense.  Before  the  Image 
were  rows  and  rows  of  candlesticks  with  empty 
spikes.  We  filled  them  all  with  candles,  sticking  each 
candle  on  its  sharp  spike.  An  old  priest  came  out 
from  the  shadows  behind  the  Goddess  and  lit  the 
candles.  We  crouched  on  the  floor  and  beat  our 
heads  against  the  ground.  I  do  not  know  for  what 
May  Li  prayed.  I  had  ceased  to  pray  for  sons.  I 
too  believed  the  words  of  my  mother-in-law,  that  I 
could  only  bear  girls,  and  it  no  longer  mattered 
to  me.  It  was  so  many  years  ago  that  I  had  hoped 
to  have  sons  !  Now,  I  no  longer  hoped  for  them.  My 
mind  was  a  blank.  I  sat  on  my  feet  on  the  old 
stones  and  beat  my  head  against  the  ground  and 
prayed  for  gentle  mothers-in-law  for  my  daughters. 
Then  I  sat  back  on  my  feet  and  lifted  up  my  face 
and  looked  at  the  Goddess.  She  was  a  great  Goddess 
and  filled  all  the  space  of  the  temple.  Her  head  was 
lost  under  the  gloom  of  the  peaked  roof ;  her  many 
hands  were  painted  golden.  Through  the  twinkling 
yellow  lights  and  the  long  red  lines  of  the  candles  I 
looked  up  at  her  and  wondered.  We  had  lit  all 
our  incense,  so  that  the  air  was  hazy  and  fragrant 
with  it.  A-doo  got  up  and  ran  away  to  play  with 
the  other  children.  I  looked  over  my  shoulder  and 
saw  them  bargaining  at  the  candy  shops.  I  saw 
the  ancient  scribe  waiting  bent  over  his  table.  No 
one  wanted  a  letter  written.  The  old  priest  in  dirty 
gray  robes  went  mumbling  around  in  the  shadows 
behind  the  great  Goddess.  Many  strange  thoughts 
went  through  my  mind  as  I  sat  on  my  feet  before  the 
Goddess.  I  looked  at  May  Li.  She  was  rocking 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


158 

herself  to  and  fro  the  way  mourners  rock.  I  heard 
her  murmuring  words  to  the  sleeping  baby,  ‘  Precious 
Jewel.’ 

“At  one  side  of  the  temple  was  a  nunnery  of 
Buddhists  who  served  the  Goddess  of  Mercy. 
Behind  the  temple  there  used  to  be  a  baby  tower, 
but  it  was  no  longer  used.  Instead,  mothers  gave 
their  babies  to  the  nuns.  At  the  gateway  hung 
the  Sign  of  the  Crimson  Fish.  This  hung  low  so 
that  a  woman  could  reach  it  and  strike  it  with  her 
hands.  When  so  struck,  the  crimson  fish  gave  out  a 
hollow,  ringing  sound  like  the  mournful  tolling  of  a 
temple  bell.  Below  the  sign  of  the  fish  was  a  gray 
drawer  in  the  gate.  I  had  forgotten  about  the 
nunnery  and  the  baby  drawer  till  I  saw  it  again.  A 
fear  leaped  into  my  heart.  I  looked  out  of  the 
corner  of  my  eyes  at  May  Li.  She  still  sat  rocking 
herself  on  her  feet  with  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

“I  bowed  myself  three  times  quickly  before  the 
Goddess.  I  looked  again  at  her  thousand  hands. 
They  were  hands  stretched  out  to  help,  but  what 
can  an  image  do  !  Of  course  it  was  wicked  to  think 
this,  but  the  thoughts  came  into  my  head  of  their 
own  accord.  The  red  candles  were  burning  brighter, 
and  their  yellow  flames  danced  like  a  thousand  lights 
before  my  eyes.  The  incense  hung  in  a  blue  haze 
around  the  head  and  eyes  of  the  Goddess,  hiding  her 
face  from  our  eyes.  Was  she  angry  at  my  impious 
thoughts  ? 

“I  touched  May  Li  on  the  arm.  ‘Come  to 
lunch,’  I  said.  She  got  up  at  once  and  joined  us. 
The  servants  had  prepared  our  lunch  at  a  table  in 


THE  WIVES  OF  LI 


iS9 


front  of  the  candy  shops.  There  were  three  or 
four  tables  filled  with  lunch  parties  who  had  come 
to  worship  at  the  feet  of  the  Goddess  of  Mercy. 
We  got  hot  water  for  our  tea  from  the  hot-water  shop 
at  the  corner.  The  children  and  the  amahs  and  I 
were  happy.  We  watched  everything  with  new 
eyes.  Men  riding  by  on  donkeys,  carry-coolies, 
amahs  with  bundles  —  everything  was  of  intense 
interest  to  us.  The  sun  was  warm  and  pleasant ; 
a  drowsy  peace  pervaded  the  deserted  market 
square. 

“Suddenly  the  booming  of  the  Crimson  Fish 
startled  me.  I  turned  around  and  looked  at  it. 
May  Li  stood  under  it.  With  one  arm  she  held 
Ai  Ling  pressed  against  her  heart,  with  the  other 
she  struck  the  fish  sharply  again.  The  sound 
echoed  out  over  the  happy  square.  The  children 
and  amahs  turned  in  a  fright.  Even  the  sleepy 
scribe  lifted  up  his  head  to  look  in  amazement. 
Again  May  Li  struck  the  fish.  Three  times  its 
hollow,  mournful  sound  reverberated  out  over  the 
square.  She  bent  her  head  as  if  listening  for  foot¬ 
steps  on  the  other  side  of  the  gate,  while  we  stood  as 
motionless  and  silent  as  if  we  too  were  listening  for 
the  sound  of  approaching  feet.  She  heard  them. 
She  bent  forward  quickly,  jerked  open  the  baby 
drawer,  and  laid  Ai  Ling  in  it.  Then  she  shut  the 
drawer,  and  again  she  bent  her  head  to  listen.  She 
heard  the  slow  retreat  of  feet  from  the  gateway. 
With  a  shriek  of  despair  she  pulled  open  the  drawer 
again.  It  was  empty !  May  Li  fell  shrieking  into 
my  arms. 


i6o 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“The  events  of  the  day  were  not  yet  over.  The 
bearers  and  the  amahs  clustered  around  May  Li 
in  great  concern.  One  of  the  bearers  suggested  that 
we  go  a  little  way  into  the  country,  to  make  May  Li 
forget  the  sharpness  of  her  sorrow.  To  go  outside 
the  walls  was  to  us  like  going  to  another  continent. 
Even  sunk  in  the  depths  of  sorrow,  such  a  prospect 
must  have  roused  one.  May  Li  grew  calmer.  *  I 
could  not  let  her  live  where  she  was  unwanted,’  she 
said.  ‘The  nuns  will  be  good  to  her.’ 

“The  men  took  us  through  a  little  gate  in  the  wall 
and  set  our  chairs  down  on  the  ground.  With 
utter  astonishment  we  looked  off,  far  away,  across 
the  fields  without  houses,  without  stores,  without 
temples.  I  had  never  seen  such  a  far  horizon  in 
my  life,  nor  so  much  grass.  The  rape  fields  blazed 
like  captive  sunshine  and  rippled  in  the  wind  like 
golden  water.  The  boats  on  the  moat  moved 
mysteriously.  We  saw  the  wind  belly  out  their 
tall  brown  sails,  and  we  saw  them  slip  over  the  water 
without  effort  of  any  kind.  We  saw  the  greatest 
wonder  of  our  lives.  A  feather  of  black  cloud 
appeared  over  the  field  and  approached  towards  us, 
as  if  driven  by  a  great  wind.  But  we  did  not  feel 
this  wind ;  we  felt  only  the  gentle  summer  wind  in 
our  faces,  the  same  wind  that  ballooned  out  the 
brown  sails  of  the  boats.  But  the  wind  that 
blew  the  black  cloud  down  upon  us  was  another 
wind.  The  black  cloud  rushed  at  us.  It  spread 
out  over  the  plains  and  cast  a  dark  shadow  on 
the  rape  fields,  so  that  they  no  longer  were  golden, 
but  gray. 


THE  WIVES  OF  LI 


161 


“‘See,  Mother,’  cried  A-doo,  ‘a  black  dragon 
crawls  beneath  the  wind  cloud.’  A  shrill  whistle 
pierced  our  ears.  Nothing  that  we  had  ever  heard 
in  our  lives  could  make  such  a  sound. 

‘“What  is  it,  Mother?’  asked  the  children.  ‘Is  it 
the  black  wind  cloud  speaking,  or  the  snake  that 
crawls  beneath  ?  ’ 

“When  it  slowed  and  stopped  across  the  moat  from 
us,  the  children  screamed  in  terror.  Tongues  of 
fire  spurted  from  its  nostrils  and  fire  gleamed  under 
its  head.  We  did  not  draw  a  free  breath  till  the 
dragon  and  its  wind  cloud  fled  away  across  the  fields 
again  and  left  us  in  peace  once  more.  We  could  not 
talk  enough  of  the  sight  we  had  seen.  Only  one  of 
the  bearers  had  seen  a  fire  wagon  before.  We  were 
all  equally  astounded.  Even  May  Li  smiled.  To 
you,  who  have  ridden  fearlessly  on  many  fire- 
wagons,  it  will  be  hard  to  understand  what  an  event 
the  first  sight  of  a  train  was  to  us.  We  had  our 
first  inkling  of  some  power  utterly  foreign  and  in¬ 
comprehensible  and  strange,  rushing  at  us  across  the 
space  of  the  world. 

“No  wonder  that  day  is  as  clear  to  me  as  if  it 
were  yesterday.  Such  a  day,  even  among  days  of 
interest,  would  stand  out  in  memory,  but  when  it 
was  the  only  day  for  months  and  months  when 
anything  had  happened  other  than  three  meals,  you 
can  conceive  of  the  magnitude  of  its  happenings. 

“The  loss  of  the  baby  did  not  disturb  us  much. 
We  were  too  accustomed  to  such  actions.  More¬ 
over  the  mother-in-law  would  approve.  Even  my 
husband  himself  would  not  regret  too  much.  It 


162 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


was  expensive  to  bring  up  a  houseful  of  girls.  It 
was  a  pious  act. 

“The  climax  of  the  day  was  upon  us.  Entering 
the  streets  of  the  city,  where  even  the  sunlight  seemed 
shadowy  and  unreal,  a  great  noise  met  our  ears. 
People  were  running  hither  and  thither ;  men 
called  out  to  one  another.  A  sharp  smell  of  burning 
struck  our  nostrils.  We  turned  into  the  temple 
square.  A  mass  of  fire  and  flames  writhed  and 
twisted  upward.  The  crowds  surged  around  it. 
The  temple  was  burning  and  the  cloister  beside  it. 
Frightened  nuns  ran  screaming  from  the  doorway. 
One,  a  tower  of  flame,  threw  herself  from  a  second- 
story  window,  and  more  jumped  after  her.  The  old 
priest  we  had  seen  mumbling  prayers  in  the  shadow 
of  Kwannon,  crouched  by  the  scribe,  scared  half  out 
of  his  wits.  With  an  echoing  crash  the  temple  roof 
fell  in.  Showers  of  splinters  rushed  up  heavenwards. 
Smoke  and  flames  swirled  and  tossed  about  the  great 
Goddess.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  I  knew  she  was 
great.  Without  outcry,  immovable  and  glowing, 
she  sat  among  the  eddying  clouds  of  smoke.  Her 
thousand  hands  glowed  red  and  live.  Her  eyes 
shone.  Her  heavy  hair  seemed  to  move.  Gone 
was  the  crimson  and  gold  ;  naked  and  glowing,  she 
sat  unmoved.  More  terrible  than  in  her  days  of 
prosperity,  potent  and  powerful,  she  shone  at  us 
through  the  drifts  of  gray  smoke. 

“The  crowd  grew  silent  watching  the  transformed 
goddess.  Only  May  Li  began  to  cry  aloud  ‘My 
baby.’  She  jumped  out  of  her  chair  and  struggled 
through  the  crowd.  They  let  her  pass  till  at  last 


THE  WIVES  OF  LI 


163 

she  stood  just  in  front  of  the  Goddess.  She  stretched 
out  her  hands  to  the  shining  Goddess  and  cried, 
‘Give  me  back  my  baby.’ 

“Two  nuns  ran  and  drew  her  back.  ‘Go  home,’ 
they  said,  ‘the  Goddess  has  taken  thy  child.’” 

Li  Ta  Ta  shook  herself  as  if  she  were  tired  from 
holding  herself  rigid  in  one  position  too  long.  I  too 
was  cramped.  She  sighed  and  refilled  her  little  pipe. 

“The  fire  didn’t  hurt  the  Goddess  at  all.  The 
priests  put  on  new  red  paint  and  regilded  the  bronze 
hands  and  her  fame  became  great  again.  May  Li 
however  was  never  the  same.  A  sorrowing  spirit 
entered  into  her.  She  shut  herself  up  in  her  room 
and  refused  to  see  any  one.  The  mother-in-law 
was  very  fierce  with  her,  but  it  was  useless.  May  Li 
refused,  and  at  last  every  one  gave  up  trying.  They 
say  she  is  crazy.  She  sits  in  her  room  with  the 
bars  across  the  windows  and  gazes  out  at  the  sun¬ 
shine.  Often  for  days  she  neither  eats  nor  speaks. 
We  almost  forget  about  her.  It  is  as  if  she  had  died 
that  day  with  her  baby ;  only  her  body  is  left. 

“After  May  Li,  my  husband  took  another  wife. 
He  went  far  away  to  the  north,  across  the  river,  and 
took  a  country  woman  to  wife.  The  mother-in-law 
so  ordained  it.  In  China  we  think  it  becomes 
necessary  every  so  often  for  an  illustrious  family  to 
take  a  wife  from  the  people.  Dong  lung  was  not 
much  more  than  a  slave  wife.  She  was  fat  and 
strong ;  she  could  carry  great  wooden  buckets  full 
of  water.  And  she  nursed  her  children.  Then  it 
was,  that  I  knew  the  curse  was  not  upon  May  Li 
and  myself ;  the  curse  was  upon  the  House  of  Li. 


164 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


Even  this  peasant  woman  bore  only  girls.  Round, 
laughing,  merry  girls,  a  new  one  came  every  year.  It 
was  a  bitter  disgrace.  The  mother-in-law  mocked 
at  us,  saying,  we  would  be  called  The  House  of 
Girls.  Li  decided  to  adopt  a  boy,  the  younger  son 
of  his  first  cousin,  to  carry  on  the  name.  That  would 
have  ended  our  troubles,  but  one  day  he  went  to 
Shanghai  and  brought  this  girl  back  with  him. 
‘  Jewel’,  he  called  her.  I  was  very  angry,  for  I 
saw  that  my  husband  had  taken  her  because  he 
loved  her.  He  had  bought  her  in  a  Avicked  house 
because  of  her  beautiful  face  and  hands.  Though 
she  was  only  fourth  wife,  he  made  her  his  favorite. 
The  mother-in-law  was  terribly  angry.  She  wished 
me  to  torment  the  girl,  but  though  I  too  was  angry, 
I  could  not.  She  was  but  little  younger  than  my 
San  Me  who  had  married  and  left  me,  and  I  could 
not  beat  her  and  mistreat  her.  Once  when  my 
husband  was  gone  on  a  long  business  trip,  the 
mother-in-law  herself  beat  her  till  she  fainted.  Li 
came  home  unexpectedly  that  night  and  found  the 
marks  of  the  beating  still  on  her  body.  The  mother- 
in-law  has  feared  him  since.  Pau  Tsu  (Jewel)  is 
terrified.  She  is  afraid  to  have  a  girl.  But  I  do  not 
think  my  husband  cares  so  much  any  more.  He 
is  contented  in  his  mind  to  adopt  a  son.  He  only 
cares  for  the  girl  herself.  It  is  as  if  he  loved  for  the 
first  time.  And  now  I  do  not  mind  that  either.  He 
leaves  me  alone  and  I  am  able  to  think  and  remember. 
I  wish  that  Pau  Tsu  may  bear  him  a  son.” 

Li  Ta  Ta  stopped  speaking  and  went  over  to  the 
door  leading  to  the  next  room.  All  was  silent 


THE  WIVES  OF  LI) 


165 

within,  and  I  got  up  and  went  in  to  see  Doctor  Grace. 
Both  she  and  the  patient  were  sleeping.  In  an 
adjoining  room  I  saw  the  dowager  and  some  of  the 
other  women  sleeping.  While  I  looked  at  them  they 
opened  their  eyes  and  questioned  me  mutely.  I 
shook  my  head,  and  their  eyelids  fluttered  to  again. 
Li  Ta  Ta  left  me.  The  house  was  silent  with  an  un¬ 
canny  silence,  the  ominous,  forced  silence  of  people 
and  places  that  wait  for  some  momentous  event, 
that  save  and  husband  their  energies  for  swift  action. 
I  was  troubled.  The  recital  of  Li  Ta  Ta’s  story 
had  stirred  me  strangely.  It  was  so  alien,  so  primi¬ 
tive  in  its  physical  interests,  yet,  the  more  I  pondered 
it,  the  better  I  realized  that  she  had  found  quietness 
for  her  soul  by  a- spiritual  conquest.  She  had  come 
to  possess  her  soul  in  peace  and  comfort.  Her  fight 
was  the  fight  of  all  humanity,  the  struggle  to  rise 
above  surroundings,  to  grow  out  of  things  material 
into  things  spiritual.  What  sublimer  height  could  an 
oriental  woman  reach  than  for  the  first  wife  to  wish 
her  rival  a  son  ! 

I  was  awakened  from  a  doze  by  Doctor  Grace 
standing  over  me. 

“It’s  time,”  she  said,  “if  you  will  give  the 
anesthetic.” 

With  the  sudden  plunge  into  full  consciousness 
which  doctors  acquire,  I  followed  her  into  the 
next  room.  Amahs  were  coming  and  going.  The 
mother-in-law  and  Li  Ta  Ta  sat  on  a  couch  be¬ 
hind  the  curtains  of  the  bed.  Li  himself  caught 
Doctor  Grace’s  sleeve  as  we  passed  through  the 
doorway. 


i66 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“Never  mind  about  the  child,”  he  said.  “I  only 
care  about  the  woman.” 

His  hands  trembled,  and  his  voice  was  husky. 
Li  Ta  Ta  was  right.  Her  husband  loved  his  bought 
slave  bride.  He  had  forgotten  about  the  necessary 
son  to  worship  at  his  tomb,  had  forgotten  all  but  the 
woman  he  loved.  Love  had  released  his  soul  from 
superstition  and  the  thraldom  of  custom.  Love 
shatters  all  but  its  own  bonds. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  girl  herself  lay  no  happiness, 
only  an  overpowering  fear,  fear  of  the  mother-in- 
law. 

A  few  minutes  later  Doctor  Grace  held  a  little 
crying  baby  in  her  arms.  The  mother-in-law  walked 
over  to  Doctor  Grace  and  inspected  the  baby.  She 
gave  it  one  swift  glance,  folded  her  arms,  and  sniffed. 

“Female,”  she  said.  “Take  the  little  dog  out 
of  my  sight.” 

“Give  her  to  me,”  said  Li  Ta  Ta;  “I  am  the 
mother  of  girls.” 

Li  himself  gave  not  a  thought  to  the  baby  but 
possessed  himself  of  one  of  Jewel’s  listless  hands  and 
stroked  it  softly. 

“It  is  all  right,”  he  said,  his  face  shining  with 
relief.  “Pau  Tsu  is  well.” 

It  was  dawn.  The  room  was  filled  with  a  pallid 
light  that  made  the  innumerable  candle  flames  but 
bits  of  sickly  color  on  the  tables  and  stools.  The 
women  suddenly  looked  tired.  An  amah  went 
around  blowing  out  the  candles.  Day  had  come 
with  the  new  life,  but  the  bride  lay  weeping  in  her 
crimson  curtained  bed. 


XV 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  DEAD 


THE  case  of  the  Li  bride  utterly  demoralized 
me.  When  we  got  back  to  the  compound 
I  found  a  letter  from  Edward,  which  I  put 
under  my  pillow,  and  then  I  cried  myself  to  sleep. 
Doctor  Grace  had  arranged  to  let  me  sleep  late,  but 
she  got  up  in  an  hour  or  two  to  go  to  work.  About 
eleven,  I  got  up  and  dressed  and  took  my  letter  out 
on  to  the  back  steps  of  the  cottage  to  read  again  and 
again.  It  comforted  me  somewhat  but  not  thor¬ 
oughly,  for  I  had  had  a  revelation  of  the  abyss  of 
difference  between  the  thoughts  and  lives  of  men 
and  women.  Li  Ta  Ta  and  I,  women  of  the  East 
and  West,  born  of  different  races,  separated  by 
centuries  of  education,  were  yet  nearer  together  in 
feeling  and  understanding  than  Edward  and  I.  All 
the  sweet  things  he  said  —  how  much  did  he  mean 
of  them  ?  And  did  he  interpret  them  as  I  did  ? 
Moreover,  even  if  he  meant  them,  could  he  keep  his 
promises?  I  had  an  illuminating  glimpse  into  the 
fundamental  variation  of  men  from  women.  I  had 
a  new  grasp  of  the  stuff  out  of  which  we  women  must 
weave  our  happiness.  I  did  not  want  to  achieve  a 
happiness  like  the  happiness  of  Li  Ta  Ta,  a  happi¬ 
ness  of  doing  without  love,  a  happiness  of  renun- 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


168 

ciation.  Before  Edward  came  it  was  different.  I 
was  thrown  into  a  turmoil  of  emotion. 

I  was  upset  the  entire  week.  The  haunting 
remembrance  of  the  wives  of  Li  would  not  leave  me. 
Saturday  afternoon  Doctor  Grace  arranged  an  out¬ 
ing  in  a  Chinese  house  boat.  Quite  a  party  of  us 
were  going.  A  basket  of  sandwiches  and  cake  was 
put  in  the  boat,  with  a  teapot  and  teacups.  We 
were  going  to  land  at  the  Coffin  House  and  have  tea 
in  the  Court  of  the  Tortoises.  We  went  through  the 
city  by  one  of  the  larger  canals,  and  again  I  ex¬ 
perienced  that  strange  altering  of  values  that  comes 
with  the  transfer  from  the  land  view  to  the  water 
view.  Through  the  beautiful  arches  we  floated. 
The  water  was  still,  and  the  arch  of  the  bridge  and 
its  reflection  below  made  a  perfect  circle.  As  if 
suspended  in  air,  we  pierced  the  heart  of  circle  after 
circle.  The  banks  along  the  canal  were  built  up 
with  stone  ramparts,  now  a  foot  or  two  in  height, 
now  six  or  eight  feet  above  us.  Sometimes  paths 
bordered  the  canal,  and  sometimes  the  houses 
abutted  on  the  water,  their  small  windows  opening 
directly  over  the  canal.  I  saw  the  tall  devil  gates, 
placed  across  the  road  from  the  main  entrance  to 
the  houses,  to  prevent  the  entrance  of  evil  spirits. 
Spirits  in  China  have  some  hard  and  fixed,  fantastic 
characteristics.  They  can  only  go  in  a  straight 
line  !  So  any  pious  man  is  safe  from  their  visitation 
if  he  builds  a  false  door  that  stands  in  front  of  the 
real  entrance  like  a  fire  screen.  By  this  ingenious 
contrivance  that  portion  of  the  highway  that  runs 
between  the  devil  gate  and  the  house,  becomes 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  DEAD 


169 


appropriated  as  a  legitimate  part  of  the  front  yard. 
The  men  of  the  family  sit  in  its  protection  and 
smoke  their  pipes ;  the  children  play  about  in  its 
security. 

The  canal  traffic  was  not  very  heavy.  On  the 
outskirts  of  the  town  we  passed  a  fisher  boat.  The 
man  lived  on  it  with  his  wife  and  entire  family. 
The  house  boat  was  a  long,  narrow  boat  of  the 
regulation  type,  varnished,  with  a  hood  of  woven 
bamboo  over  its  center.  All  the  family  activities 
were  carried  on  within  this  hood.  When  a  river 
man  takes  a  river  woman  to  wife,  the  only  change  in 
the  life  of  the  woman  is  to  step  across  from  the  boat 
of  her  father  to  the  boat  of  her  husband.  Drifting 
up  and  down  stream,  now  to  the  coasts  of  Shanghai, 
now  winding  miles  deep  into  the  interior,  they  fish 
and  live  and  eat  and  die.  Time  enough  they  have 
to  become  river  philosophers !  On  they  float,  in 
the  night,  slipping  from  the  close,  peopled  walls  of 
the  city,  out  through  the  open  meadows,  up  and  up, 
to  the  hills. 

Our  fisherman  was  fishing.  With  his  back  to  the 
water,  he  stood  on  the  stern  of  the  boat  which 
projected  far  out.  Lithe  and  squat,  he  gathered  up 
the  circular  net  in  both  hands.  Standing  at  the 
extreme  edge  of  the  boat,  the  heels  of  his  bare  feet 
stuck  out  over  the  last  plank,  he  pulled  the  center 
of  the  net  into  his  left  hand  and  caught  its  ruffled 
circumference,  like  an  open  mouth,  in  his  right.  A 
moment  he  swung  poised  for  action.  Then  with  a 
swift  pirouette,  he  bent  and  whirled  around,  swinging 
the  net  around  his  shoulders  like  a  lasso.  Holding 


170 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


the  center  fast  in  his  left  hand,  he  flung  the  wide-open 
mouth  of  the  net  far  out  upon  the  water.  With 
a  splash  it  spread  out  its  enticing  coils.  The  corks 
on  its  circumference  bobbed  hither  and  thither  in  a 
dancing  ring.  A  hoop  of  ripples  ran  towards  the 
shore.  The  man  drew  in  the  net  very  slowly.  Taut, 
its  mouth  still  in  the  water,  its  center  held  firmly  in 
the  fisherman’s  left  hand,  it  hung  like  a  gigantic 
cobweb,  shining  and  sparkling  in  the  air.  Here  and 
there  the  silver  bellies  of  fish  caught  the  light.  The 
fisherman  dropped  the  folds  of  the  net  at  his  feet, 
and  his  wife  picked  off  the  fish  and  tossed  them  into 
a  wicker  basket.  Then  the  fisherman  poised  him¬ 
self  for  another  throw.  Balancing  delicately  over 
the  water,  he  gathered  up  the  net  in  orderly,  precise 
folds.  Again  he  stooped  with  marvelous  speed  and 
grace,  whirled,  and  flung  out  his  net  upon  the  water. 
Never  have  I  seen  any  motion  so  beautiful.  Not 
even  Pavlova  could  rival  that  fisherman  of  the 
canal.  Again  and  again  we  watched  him,  spell¬ 
bound  by  the  rhythmic  grace  and  strength  of  his 
motions.  His  wife,  more  nonchalant  than  he, 
looked  up  from  her  task  of  picking  out  the  fish  with 
incurious  eyes.  Several  children  gazed  at  us  with 
frank  interest. 

“Are  all  the  fishermen  as  clever  as  this  one?”  I 
asked. 

“Oh,  yes,”  said  Doctor  Grace.  “They  don’t 
seem  to  know  that  they  are  doing  anything  beautiful. 
Of  course  a  skilful  one  knows  that  he  throws  unerr¬ 
ingly,  tirelessly,  but  I  have  never  seen  any  one  take 
pleasure  in  the  grace  of  the  motion.  That  is  a 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  DEAD 


171 

queer  thing  about  China,  at  least  about  this  part  of 
China.  The  people  don’t  seem  to  enjoy  motion  or 
watching  motion  and  they  are  very  appreciative  of 
all  other  kinds  of  beauty.” 

1  could  hardly  bear  to  let  the  boat  go  away.  The 
swift  bend,  the  sudden  turn,  and  the  lightning-like 
casting  of  the  fisherman’s  net  put  a  spell  on  me.  At 
last  Doctor  Grace  laughed  and  ordered  the  oarsman 
to  go  ahead. 

“You  can  come  any  day  to  see  the  net-casters,” 
she  said  ;  “we  can’t  lose  this  whole  lovely  afternoon 
for  one  fisherman.” 

We  got  out  of  the  boat  at  the  foot  of  a  flight  of 
temple  steps.  A  long  avenue  of  trees  led  up  to  an 
ancient  temple  and  pagoda.  This  avenue  was 
literally  lined  with  peach  trees  and  willows  —  and 
beggars.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  most  forlorn  speci¬ 
mens  of  humanity  had  elected  to  live  along  that 
approach.  Upon  looking  closer,  I  saw  that,  though 
some  were  really  deformed  and  disfigured,  their 
real  claim  to  beggardom  lay  in  their  clothes  ;  women 
with  babies  swung  like  amulets  around  their  necks, 
hoary  sages  with  beards  to  their  belts.  And  a  lusty 
horde  of  youngsters  bounded  out  from  the  shade  of 
the  trees  to  meet  us,  crying  for  coppers.  Doctor 
Grace  scattered  a  handful  of  cash  among  them.  The 
boatman  shooed  them  away,  and  we  were  allowed  to 
proceed  in  peace.  Two  devil-catcher  poles,  slim  and 
crimson,  and  girdled  near  the  summits  with  their  up- 
curling,  devil-catching  baskets,  guarded  the  entrance. 

We  went  through  the  famous  gateway  of  the 
pagoda.  Names  of  students,  some  dead,  some 


172 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


famous,  were  scrawled  in  true  tourist  fashion  over 
all  the  reachable  space  of  the  lower  walls.  The 
breath  of  antiquity  hung  about  its  fading  frescoes 
and  moss-covered  stones.  Up  and  up  it  soared  into 
the  air,  higher  than  anything  in  the  surrounding 
land.  Its  series  of  diminishing  galleries  had  the 
airy  grace  of  perfect  proportion.  The  Tiger  Temple 
had  fallen  into  ruins.  Nothing  but  an  entrance  and 
an  altar  remained. 

A  file  of  priests,  heralded  by  drums  and  pipes, 
wound  down  the  street  and  passed  us,  through  the 
temple  entrance.  Boys,  in  the  costume  of  acolytes, 
marched  ahead,  carrying  drums  and  bundles  of 
silver  and  gold  paper  money.  A  paper  ricksha,  a 
servant  in  paper  effigy,*  bowls  of  food  and  incense 
were  carried  in  great  pomp.  Through  the  dark 
gateway  the  procession  filed.  The  priests,  in  robes 
of  lush  green  and  pigeon-blood  red,  marched  to  the 
altar  and  offerings  of  money  and  furniture  and 
clothes  were  piled  in  a  heap  on  its  ancient  stones. 
The  priests  began  a  weird  chant,  which  fell  with  the 
subtle  charm  of  an  incantation  on  the  air.  In  its 
mournful  intervals  I  caught  echoes  of  the  song  of 
the  priests  around  the  warm  grave.  It  was  the 
chant  for  the  dead,  and  it  filled  the  ruined  courts 
of  the  Tiger  Temple  with  strange,  forgotten  echoes. 
The  moving  circle  of  priests  came  to  a  standstill 
around  the  altar  piled  high  with  its  paper  offerings. 
The  high  priest  stepped  out  from  the  circle  and  set 
a  light  to  the  offerings.  The  sudden  blaze  whirled 
and  eddied  upward  from  the  altar  stones.  The 
priests  began  again  their  slow  circling  around  and 


THE  TEMPLE  COURTYARD.  A  CEREMONIAL 


» . 


. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  DEAD 


i73 


around  the  burning  offering,  chanting  the  same 
weird  incantation.  Heedless,  the  little  acolytes 
whispered  among  themselves ;  the  bystanders  talked 
and  chatted.  Perhaps,  in  that  throng,  we  were  the 
most  impressed.  The  burning  sacrifice,  the  chant¬ 
ing,  circling  priests,  the  flaunting  colors  of  em¬ 
broidery  and  satin  under  the  streaming  sunlight,  in 
the  ruined  courts  of  the  Temple,  gave  me  a  sudden 
feeling  of  the  reality  of  religion.  It  was  not  their 
religion,  or  my  religion,  that  I  felt;  it  was  universal 
religion,  the  striving  upward  of  all  mankind  to  the 
Truth  beyond. 

While  the  ashes  still  glowed  on  the  hearthstone 
of  the  ancient  altar,  the  priests  wound  away,  through 
the  gateway,  down  again  to  the  streets  of  the 
city.  The  onlookers  drifted  apart,  and  the  temple 
court  was  deserted  but  for  us  and  the  glowing 
ashes.  I  felt  a  curious  reluctance  to  leave  until  the 
last  spark  had  died ;  it  did  not  seem  fitting  to  go 
chattering  on  our  way,  while  the  sacrifice  still  glowed. 

At  last  I  turned  away.  In  the  shadow  of  the 
deep  stone  gateway  stood  Edward.  The  sudden 
sight  of  him  set  my  heart  beating  strangely.  I 
wanted  to  run  to  him  and  have  him  catch  me  up  in 
his  arms,  but,  of  course,  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind. 
I  pretended  I  was  just  ordinarily  pleased  to  see  him. 

“How  did  you  get  here ?”  I  asked. 

“How  should  anybody  get  here?”  he  said.  “I 
had  some  business  in  Woosih  and  stopped  off  for 
the  afternoon.  At  the  compound  they  told  me  that 
if  I  took  a  donkey  to  the  Tiger  Temple  I  should 
catch  you  here.” 


174 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


Edward’s  coming  made  the  queerest  difference 
to  me.  All  the  things  that  I  had  been  bothering 
about  all  the  week  were  suddenly  insignificant. 
They  seemed  to  me  foolish  thoughts.  A  whirl 
of  merriment  seized  the  company,  as  we  climbed 
back  again  into  our  house  boat.  The  oarsman  at 
the  stern,  on  the  other  side  of  the  bamboo  hood,  was 
out  of  sight  and  forgotten.  The  boat  seemed  to 
move  of  itself,  to  have  a  life  of  its  own.  We  spread 
an  old  steamer  rug  on  the  boards  of  the  prow  and 
sat  on  the  floor,  dangling  our  feet  over  the  edge  of 
the  boat.  Edward  sat  behind  me,  and  our  fingers 
met  on  the  gunwale.  How  can  the  mere  touch  of 
fingers  solve  all  the  problems  of  the  universe ! 

We  were  on  the  inner  moat.  On  one  side  towered 
the  great  wall  against  the  sky,  cutting  the  serene 
blue  with  its  jagged,  warlike  outline ;  on  the  other 
lay  the  city.  Every  time  we  pierced  the  heart  of  a 
bridge  and  its  reflection,  I  drew  a  quick  breath  of 
delight. 

“Do  you  like  it  so  much?”  asked  Edward. 

I  nodded. 

“Shall  I  bring  you  here  on  your  honeymoon?” 
he  whispered. 

I  shook  my  head. 

“Why  not,  if  you  like  it  so  much?”  he  asked. 

“  I  want  to  go  to  a  new  place,”  I  answered,  “where 
I  have  never  been  before,  where  I  have  never  had 
any  other  thoughts,  where  I  have  never  seen  things 
without  you.” 

“Where?”  he  asked. 

“How  should  I  know?”  I  replied. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  DEAD 


i75 


“ Do  you  want  it  to  be  a  surprise  ?”he  asked. 

“Of  course,”  I  answered. 

“I  know  a  place,”  hejwhispered  in  my  ear,  bending 
forward  over  my  shoulder,  “  I  know  a  place  where  we 
can  go  to-morrow.  Will  you  come?” 

“To-morrow?”  I  gasped.  “No,  no,  I  am  not 
ready.  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you.  I  must  have 
more  time  to  think  things  out.” 

Edward  looked  at  me  curiously. 

“It’s  no  use  trying  to  think  things  out,”  he  said. 
“  Haven’t  you  found  that  out  by  this  time  ?  Life 
isn’t  so  clear  that  thought  can  pierce  it.  We  must 
go  ahead  and  feel  our  way  through.  Tell  me  what 
has  been  troubling  you.” 

So  I  told  him  about  Li  Ta  Ta  and  the  last  bride 
and  the  fears  their  fate  had  aroused  in  me.  Edward 
listened  attentively.  I  felt  better  when  I  had  told 
him  about  them.  All  the  week  I  had  been  unable 
to  write  their  story,  and  the  harboring  of  it  had  be¬ 
come  a  secret  which  oppressed  me  like  a  treachery,  it 
had  filled  me  with  such  disloyal,  suspicious  thoughts. 

“What  do  you  think  about  it?”  I  asked. 

“I  can’t  tell  you  here,”  Edward  said.  “I  must 
have  you  alone  to  tell  you.” 

He  unclasped  his  fingers  from  mine  and  drew 
back.  His  eyes  were  very  tender,  not  reproachful, 
but  that  little  action  of  his  made  me  feel  very  forlorn 
and  abandoned.  A  new  realization  entered  my 
consciousness  —  my  utter  need  of  his  love.  Work 
and  independence,  how  passionately  I  had  wanted 
them !  And  now  I  was  ready  to  cast  them  away 
for  the  touch  of  a  man’s  fingers.  Whatever  the 


176 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


future  might  hold,  I  knew  what  I  wanted  now.  I 
slipped  my  hand  back  along  the  boards  and  found 
Edward’s  fingers.  Then  I  was  quite  satisfied. 

“See  that  wall  along  the  inner  side  of  the  canal?” 
said  Doctor  Grace.  “That  is  the  Coffin  House.” 

A  low  strip  of  wet  green  grass  ran  down  to  the 
water’s  edge.  Willows,  very  old,  with  their  weeping 
fronds  trailing  in  the  water,  stood  like  mournful 
sentinels  along  the  narrow  path  that  led  from  the 
water  to  the  walled  house.  Just  beyond  were  rice 
fields  and  two  lazy  buffaloes,  each  watched  by  a 
little  boy.  We  moored  our  boat  and  got  out.  Be¬ 
fore  us  rose  a  square,  walled  house,  blind  and 
windowless.  A  gatekeeper  let  us  pass  without  chal¬ 
lenge.  A  series  of  three  open  courts  led  to  the  pool 
of  the  House  of  the  Dead,  where  the  ancient  tortoises 
played.  Around  the  courts  were  rows  and  rows  of 
cells  filled  with  coffins,  waiting  to  be  buried.  Some¬ 
times  the  coffins  wait  in  the  House  of  the  Dead  a 
hundred  years,  till  the  soothsayer  foretells  an 
auspicious  day  for  burying,  or  until  the  family  can 
afford  the  money  for  a  fortunate  place  of  burial. 
There  were  big  coffins,  —  black,  with  gorgeous 
sprawling  dragons  in  gilt  on  the  lid,  —  little  baby 
coffins,  the  size  of  a  doll’s  trunk,  rich  coffins  of  teak, 
and  cheap  ones  of  ash  roughly  put  together.  Row 
after  row,  tier  above  tier,  the  chambers  were  filled 
with  the  coffined  bodies  of  the  dead.  The  dead  and 
the  stars  always  give  me  a  feeling  of  the  preciousness 
and  futility  of  living.  I  always  want  to  live  more 
than  ever.  As  in  the  catacombs  of  Latin  countries, 
these  dead  shivered  to  decay  above  the  ground. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  DEAD 


177 


We  came  at  last  to  the  inner  court  and  the  Pool 
of  the  Tortoises.  There  were  really  two  pools, 
linked  by  a  low  flat  bridge.  A  lattice  of  fretwork 
ran  around  the  four  sides  of  the  pool.  Slippery, 
moss-green  steps  of  stone  rose  up  from  underneath 
the  brown  water.  Ancient  weeping  willows  grew  in 
the  open  earth  between  the  irregular  flagging.  Half 
the  pool  was  in  shadow  and  half  in  sunlight.  The 
still  water  was  a  golden  brown,  the  slanting  beams 
of  the  sun  penetrating  but  a  short  distance  beneath 
its  surface.  I  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  over¬ 
come  by  the  silence,  by  the  walls  honeycombed  with 
the  dead  past,  and  by  the  ancient  mystery  of  the 
pools. 

I  had  no  feeling  of  being  in  a  Campo  Santo  with 
its  subtle  benediction,  but  rather  of  being  in  a  home 
of  disembodied  spirits  who  had  not  yet  found  rest  and 
peace  for  their  souls.  Snatches  of  the  gatekeeper’s 
words  drifted  in  to  me  as  he  showed  the  others  some 
famous  coffin. 

“He  was  the  richest  man  in  Soochow.  He  had 
ten  wives.  His  youngest  wife  died  upon  his  body. 
People  said  she  was  forced  to  kill  herself.  She  took 
opium.  They  were  buried  in  the  same  coffin.  Yes, 
this  very  coffin  that  you  are  looking  at.  The  family 
have  never  been  able  to  bury  it.  Whenever  a 
fortune  teller  is  called  in  to  cast  the  charm 
and  decide  where  and  when  to  bury  it,  he  cannot 
find  a  fortunate  day.  So  it  has  been  for  a  hundred 
years.  See  how  well  the  wood  has  kept.  The 
colors  are  still  as  bright  as  when  they  were  first 
painted.  The  priests  say  that  he  does  not  want  to 


178 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


be  buried,  that  his  spirit  interferes  with  the  casting 
of  the  burying  spell.  He  likes  it  here  in  the  house 
of  the  dead.  He  likes  the  warm  sunshine  when  it 
slants  in  during  the  early  morning  and  touches  the 
foot  of  his  coffin.  He  likes  the  cool  and  shade  in 
the  hot  summer  days.  He  likes  to  feel  the  feet  of 
the  living  walking  past  him  and  to  hear  their  cheerful 
voices.  And  he  likes  the  little  body  of  his  slave-wife 
lying  against  him  in  the  close  warm  darkness.  In 
the  ground  he  would  long  ago  have  moldered  and 
withered.  Only  last  year  the  family  took  the  lid 
off  and  saw  the  two  lying  clasped  in  each  other’s 
arms.  They  were  very  gorgeous,  he  in  his  official 
mandarin  robes,  she  dressed  as  a  bride.  She  was 
very  young.  She  had  not  yet  borne  a  child,  and  the 
Mandarin  loved  her.  The  other  wives  were  jealous. 
I  think  she  was  glad  to  die.  It  was  an  act  of 
devotion.  Once  at  twilight  I  sat  alone  at  the  gate 
smoking  my  long  pipe  and  thinking  of  nothing  at  all. 
All  the  women  and  children  had  gone  home.  Soon 
I  too  would  go  home  to  my  little  house  at  the  end  of 
the  field,  to  a  good  hot  supper  of  rice  and  fish.  But 
there  was  still  a  little  time  to  watch.  The  sun  had 
not  yet  set.  I  knew  it  by  the  pink  light  on  the  clouds, 
though  within  the  city  walls  all  was  long  ago  in 
shade.  The  water  in  the  moat  was  running  faster 
than  its  wont.  The  branches  of  the  willows  made 
a  little  rippling  sound  as  they  dipped  in  the  water. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  wall  I  heard  the  cries  of 
birds.  Overhead  flew  a  flock  of  crows,  one  by  one, 
in  a  black  stream  across  the  pink  sky,  crying  loudly. 

“  Light  shone  dimly  in  the  open  rooms  of  the  houses 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  DEAD 


179 


along  the  road.  The  pink  in  the  sky  faded.  The 
heavens  became  a  clear,  quivering  green.  Overhead 
one  star  shone.  It  was  time  to  close  the  House  of 
the  Dead  for  the  night.  I  emptied  my  pipe  and 
went  in  to  close  the  gate.  The  courts  were  already 
dark.  I  walked  through  the  three  outer  courts,  to  the 
Pool  of  the  Tortoises.  In  the  twilight  I  could  not 
distinguish  their  backs.  I  threw  them  their  evening 
offering  of  sweet  cakes.  I  could  not  see,  but  I  heard 
the  waters  move.  I  knew  just  how  the  sacred 
tortoises  were  gobbling  up  the  little  morsels  of  food. 
The  water,  stirred  by  their  rushing  bodies,  swished 
against  the  stone  steps.  I  stood  there  waiting  a  mo¬ 
ment  or  so. 

“Out  of  the  deepest  shadows  under  the  ancient 
willows  came  a  low  soft  laugh.  It  sounded  like  the 
laugh  of  a  happy  young  girl  or  of  a  child  that  has 
never  known  sorrow.  I  wanted  to  laugh  too,  with¬ 
out  knowing  why.  I  tossed  a  second  handful  of  cake 
crumbs  into  the  unseen  water.  Again  I  heard  the 
commotion  of  the  eating  tortoises.  But  the  gay 
child’s  laugh  came  not  again.  Instead  I  saw  two 
shadows  underneath  the  willow.  My  eyes  had 
grown  accustomed  to  the  twilight.  I  saw  them 
quite  distinctly.  One  was  an  old  man,  stooping,  in 
the  long-sleeved  gown  of  a  mandarin.  The  other  was 
a  young  girl  in  the  finery  of  a  pleasure  girl.  They 
were  holding  hands  and  leaning  over  the  lattice  to 
look  at  the  water.  The  turmoil  in  the  water  sub¬ 
sided.  The  tortoises  sank  into  motionlessness.  The 
two  figures  glided  around  the  cloisters,  the  girl 
leading  the  old  man  by  the  hand.  I  was  afraid  to 


180  MY  CHINESE  DAYS 

move.  I  stood  quite  still,  and  they  passed  me  with¬ 
out  seeing  me.  A  cool  breath  of  air  struck  against 
me  and  I  shivered.  I  watched  them.  They  came 
out  into  the  second  court  and  stood  beside  this 
coffin.  I  looked  again  but  they  were  gone.  Other 
people  had  seen  them  too.  Oftenest  it  is  a  slave- 
girl  bride  who  sees  the  Mandarin’s  bride.  They 
say  she  smiles  and  beckons.  Then  the  bride  dies. 
It  is  very  bad  luck  to  see  the  girl  alone.” 

The  voice  of  the  gatekeeper  ceased.  For  half  a 
moment  it  was  silent  in  the  second  court,  and  in  the 
court  of  the  Pool  of  the  Tortoises.  Then  in  the 
outer  court  talking  broke  out  again.  Still  no  one 
came  in.  My  eyes,  half  staring  and  unseeing,  were 
fixed  on  the  sunlit  space  of  the  water.  Suddenly  it 
moved  and  heaved,  and  a  great  golden  back  came 
into  sight.  Another  and  another  rose  into  view. 
Eight  or  ten  huge  tortoises,  their  backs  mottled  in 
gleams  of  yellow  and  brown,  ruffled  the  pool  with  a 
thousand  ripples.  Centuries  old,  pampered  and 
protected,  fed  cake  and  sweetmeats  by  the  hands 
of  countless  generations,  they  lived  on  from  age 
to  age.  I  looked  at  their  beautifully  marked  and 
tinted  backs  with  awe.  What  had  they  not  seen ! 
Even  the  ghosts  of  the  Mandarin  who  cannot 
be  buried  and  his  slave  were  not  as  old  as  the  turtles. 
The  mystery  of  the  pool  was  a  thousandfold  in¬ 
tensified  by  the  appearance  of  these  animals  who 
seemed  to  have  lived  forever. 

A  babel  of  tongues  broke  out  in  the  outer  court. 
A  bevy  of  Chinese  women  and  children  entered  the 
Court  of  the  Pool.  There  were  several  high-born 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  DEAD 


181 

women,  innumerable  amahs  and  coolies  carrying 
babies  and  baskets  of  food. 

They  looked  at  me  with  interest  and  in  a  moment 
I  had  recognized  them  as  belonging  to  the  family  of 
Li.  Li  Ta  Ta  was  there,  and  the  peasant  wife  from 
the  north,  and  the  Favorite.  An  amah  followed  her 
closely,  carrying  her  baby  girl  in  her  arms.  The 
women  were  accompanied  by  a  countless  number  of 
children. 

“Let  us  eat  together,”  Li  Ta  Ta  said.  “Will  the 
foreign-born  teacher  honor  us  by  eating  of  our 
humble  food  ?” 

Doctor  Grace  and  the  others  joined  us.  We 
combined  our  food  and  exchanged  egg  sandwiches 
for  dough  balls.  The  children  were  provided  with 
little  paper  bags  full  of  soft  cakes  to  throw  to  the 
tortoises.  They  led  me  to  the  other  side  of  the 
bridge  where  not  only  willows  grew  but  vines  of 
wisteria  as  thick  as  my  waist.  “The  color  of  the 
sky,”  said  Li  Ta  Ta,  “and  sweet  as  a  field  of  beans.” 

The  children  laughed  and  fed  the  turtles  just  as 
little  American  children  feed  the  bears  with  peanuts. 
It  was  like  going  to  the  circus  to  them.  I  was 
fascinated  by  the  face  of  the  bride.  Li  Ta  Ta 
stood  by  the  lattice  with  the  children.  Edward  and 
Doctor  Grace  left  again  to  explore  a  ruined  pagoda 
behind  the  house,  and  I  moved  over  beside  the  girl. 
She  was  very  pale,  with  blue  stains  under  her  eyes. 
Her  lips  were  the  beautiful  lips  of  a  Chinese  child, 
the  upper  lip  very  full  in  the  center  and  deeply 
curved.  She  was  carefully  painted,  spots  of  rouge 
on  each  cheek  and  in  the  middle  of  her  chin.  She 


i82 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


had  taken  her  baby  from  the  amah  and  held  it  in  her 
arms. 

“The  little  dog,”  she  said,  looking  at  it  tenderly. 
“If  she  had  only  been  a  little  boy,  the  mother-in-law 
would  have  called  her  the  Little  Prince.” 

“Nevermind  the  mother-in-law,”  I  said.  “She  is 
your  Little  Princess.” 

“It  cannot  be,”  said  the  bride.  “She  will  be  a 
little  slave.  I  know  about  slaves,”  she  continued. 
“Li  Sien  San  bought  me  in  a  slave  house  in  Shanghai. 
My  father  was  a  scholar.  One  day  he  went  into 
Shanghai  to  meet  a  friend.  This  friend  had  become 
an  opium  eater,  though  father  knew  it  not.  Father 
was  gone  a  month,  and  when  he  came  back  he 
brought  opium  with  him.  At  first  he  smoked 
secretly,  but  soon  he  did  not  care  what  we  thought 
any  more.  He  smoked  openly.  Mother  implored 
him  on  her  knees  to  give  it  up,  and  so  did  his  old 
mother.  But  he  wouldn’t.  Already,  in  a  few 
months,  he  loved  the  opium  better  than  mother  and 
wife  and  children.  His  mother  died  with  a  broken 
heart.  My  father  sold  everything  we  possessed. 
By  day  and  by  night  he  lay  on  the  couch  and 
smoked.  He  grew  thin ;  the  bones  seemed  to 
stretch  his  skin,  so  dry  and  shrunken  had  it  become. 
He  apprenticed  my  brother  to  a  weaver.  This 
broke  my  mother’s  heart,  for  my  brother  was  to 
have  been  a  scholar  like  my  father.  Soon  that 
money  was  all  gone  too.  Then  father  ordered 
mother  to  make  for  me  beautiful  clothes  and  pre¬ 
pare  for  a  journey.  ‘I  will  take  her  to  Shanghai,’ 
he  said.  ‘Her  beauty  is  worth  much  gold.’  Mother 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  DEAD 


183 


and  I  knew  what  that  meant,  but  we  dared  not 
disobey.  Day  after  day  we  stitched  on  the  fatal, 
beautiful  clothes,  such  clothes  as  I  should  have  had 
were  I  to  be  married  in  honor.  Father  set  the  day 
for  departure.  That  night  mother  slipped  her 
hand  under  father’s  pillow  where  he  kept  the 
precious  store  of  opium,  and  stole  a  handful.  She 
got  up  and  boiled  hot  water  on  the  charcoal  stove 
and  made  herself  a  cup  of  opium  tea.  Then  she 
lay  down  beside  father  again  and  slept.  In  the 
morning,  when  father  found  she  was  dead,  he  was 
very  angry.  ‘Now  she  will  haunt  me  forever,’  he 
said.  Sometimes  she  haunts  me  too,”  said  Pau  Tsu. 
“In  the  slave  house  in  Shanghai  I  used  to  see  her 
sitting  sorrowfully  by  the  side  of  my  bed.  I  learned 
many  things  there,  too  many  to  understand.” 

“Are  you  happy  now?”  I  asked. 

“How  should  I  be  happy?”  she  asked.  “My 
child  is  a  girl.” 

“But  your  husband  loves  you,”  I  said. 

Pau  Tsu  smiled  faintly.  “What  is  the  love  of  a 
man?”  she  said.  “Other  men  have  also  loved  me, 
and  it  did  not  make  me  happy.  No,  it  is  not  enough. 
He  must  love  me  for  something  more  than  sons.  I 
am  very  tired.” 

I  tried  to  cheer  her  up.  I  talked  of  all  sorts  of 
things,  of  the  mission  school  and  what  she  could  do 
for  her  baby  girl.  To  all  my  suggestions  she  offered 
the  same  reply.  “It  is  impossible.  The  mother- 
in-law  would  not  permit  it.” 

She  was  so  armored  in  misery  that  I  could  not 
reach  her.  Yet  she  was  not  rebellious  or  complain- 


184 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


ing.  Life  was  so,  and  she  found  it  bitter.  Then 
suddenly  she  touched  my  arm. 

“See,”  she  said,  pointing  across  the  pool  at  the 
shadow  of  the  ancient  willow.  “See,  the  Man¬ 
darin’s  slave  girl.  She  stands  close  against  the 
trunk  of  the  tree,  half  hidden  by  it,  and  beckons  to 
me  with  her  hand.” 

I  looked  across  the  pool.  Already  the  opposite 
side  of  the  court  was  dark  with  purple  and  blue 
shadows.  The  willows  were  misty  gray  like  olive 
trees.  The  water  was  a  fathomless  slate  color. 
The  tortoises  had  sunk  out  of  sight,  or  else  floated 
motionless,  with  their  backs  just  above  the  surface 
of  the  water,  hardly  distinguishable  from  the  water 
itself.  I  looked  up  at  the  sky.  A  pink  gauze  veil 
was  drawn  across  it.  Directly  overhead  hung  one 
silver  star.  Pau  Tsu  and  I  were  alone  beside  the 
pool.  Cool  and  mysterious  with  its  dead  people  and 
its  living  tortoises,  the  court  grew  darker  and  darker. 

“Listen,”  said  Pau  Tsu,  now  grasping  my  arm 
tightly.  “I  hear  her  laughing.” 

But  under  the  willow  I  saw  only  the  gathering 
mists  of  the  evening  and  in  the  hollow  court  I  heard 
only  the  soft  stir  of  the  evening  wind  and  the  lap¬ 
ping  of  the  dead  brown  water  against  the  moss- 
green  stones. 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  WELL 


YOU  will  have  plenty  of  time  to  walk  to  the 
incubator  on  the  way  to  the  feast  at  Li’s,” 
said  Doctor  Grace.  “  I  will  meet  you  there 
at  seven.” 

Edward  and  I  started  off  on  foot.  He  had  been 
prevailed  upon  to  spend  the  night.  Before  we  had 
left  the  House  of  the  Dead  yesterday,  Li  Ta  Ta 
had  invited  us  to  a  feast  this  evening.  All  the 
morning  we  had  sat  on  the  water  steps  under  the 
old  camphor  trees  and  watched  the  boats  drift  by 
on  the  inner  moat.  Edward  had  almost  talked  me 
out  of  my  obsession  of  fear  —  almost,  but  not 
quite.  But  I  managed  for  the  moment  to  banish 
my  worries  and  just  be  happy  in  the  shared  sunshine. 
Now  we  started  off  gaily  on  my  first  walk  through 
the  intricate  streets  of  Soochow.  Doctor  Grace 
had  given  me  elaborate  directions,  and  with  Edward 
I  feared  no  adventure. 

The  streets  were  vivid  with  the  coming  and  going 
of  Oriental  life.  At  the  nearest  corner  stood  a  chow 
man.  He  had  put  dowm  his  wood  and  wicker  stand, 
which  he  carried  on  his  shoulder,  and  was  fanning  his 
charcoal  fire  into  a  flame.  We  stopped  to  watch 
him.  Half  a  dozen  ragged  urchins  had  already 


i86 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


gathered  about  him.  Tea  and  dough  balls  and  cakes 
were  his  stock  in  trade.  A  boy  swaggered  forward 
with  a  brass  cash  in  his  open  palm.  They  bargained 
vociferously  as  to  how  much  that  brass  cash  would 
buy.  When  that  was  settled  at  last  to  the  satis¬ 
faction  of  all  the  bystanders,  the  boy  and  the 
food  vendor  cast  their  fingers  for  the  cash  or  the 
food,  while  with  bated  breath  the  crowd  watched 
the  proceeding.  The  boy  won.  He  pocketed  his 
cash,  and  the  vendor  handed  over  the  stipulated 
amount  of  sweetmeats.  A  delighted  shout  went  up 
from  the  boys,  and  another,  emboldened  by  the 
luck  of  the  first,  unearthed  a  cash,  and  the  process 
was  repeated.  Again  the  boy  won.  The  vendor 
was  not  in  the  least  disturbed,  but  repeated  the 
gambling  again  and  again.  The  crowd  around  him 
grew  denser.  Luck  was  with  the  boys.  The  interest 
of  the  ragamuffins  was  intense.  I  watched  them 
give  the  signal  and  fling  out  their  fingers.  They  were 
more  interested  in  the  gambling  than  in  the  food, 
and  the  vendor  more  in  the  game  than  in  his  business. 

“I’d  like  to  try  my  luck,”  said  Edward. 

“Oh!  you  mustn’t,”  I  said.  “It  would  be  a 
bad  example.” 

Edward  pinched  my  arm.  “  Don’t  be  afraid  ;  I’m 
not  going  to.  I  was  just  stating  my  unregenerate 
feelings.  One  can’t  help  admiring  such  a  simple  and 
ingenious  way  of  adding  zest  to  existence.” 

Along  the  banks  of  the  many  canals  women  were 
washing  the  evening  rice.  They  crouched  on  the 
last  step  of  the  water  stairs  and  dipped  a  woven 
bowl,  full  of  rice  kernels,  into  the  muddy  stream. 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  WELL  187 


On  other  steps  were  women  washing  dirty  clothes. 
From  a  house  yet  further  down  the  stream  I  saw 
an  amah  empty  a  bucket  of  foul  water  into  the  same 
canal. 

“Isn’t  it  sickening,”  I  said.  “I  don’t  under¬ 
stand  how  they  can  do  it.  How  can  they  have  any 
appetite  for  their  food?” 

“Don’t  try  to  understand,”  said  Edward,  “at 
least  not  this  afternoon.  Just  enjoy  the  picture 
they  make  —  the  long  brown  canal,  the  flights  of 
stone  steps,  the  bending  women  at  the  water’s 
edge.  If  you  were  Murillo,  that  is  what  you  would 
see.” 

“  But  can  one  choose  what  one  will  see  ?”  I  asked. 

“Of  course  one  can,”  said  Edward.  “It’s  foolish 
to  see  what  you  can’t  help.  It  spoils  enjoyment.” 

“You  are  a  pagan,”  I  said. 

“Ah,  no!”  answered  Edward.  “That  is  a  super¬ 
ficial  remark.  I  object  to  being  called  pagan  merely 
because  I  enjoy  the  world.  ‘  Weltschmerz’  was  an 
epoch  of  feeling.  We’ve  left  it  behind  us  and  come 
out  into  the  Joylands  again.” 

I  looked  at  Edward  wonderingly.  He  had  never 
before  spoken  in  that  manner  to  me.  Our  court¬ 
ship  had  been  a  matter  of  physical  delight  and 
shared  experiences  rather  than  shared  thoughts.  I 
grew  a  little  shy  of  him.  This  Edward  I  didn’t 
know  at  all. 

We  went  through  the  Street  of  the  Satin  Weavers, 
where  Edward  could  hardly  drag  me  along,  into  the 
Street  of  the  Jade  Cutters,  where  the  hum  of  the 
grindstones  filled  the  air  like  the  sound  of  countless 


i88 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


bees,  and  out  to  a  market  place  near  one  of  the  gates 
in  the  wall.  Here  a  building,  larger  than  the  others, 
caught  our  eyes  at  once.  It  was  higher  and  of 
weather-beaten  brick.  At  the  door  a  workman  wel¬ 
comed  us.  He  seemed  to  know  our  errand  by  in¬ 
tuition,  or  perhaps  by  experience,  for  the  Incubator 
at  Soochow  is  one  of  the  sights  of  the  city.  Within 
we  found  ourselves  in  a  large  room,  filled  with  small 
ovens  made  of  clay  and  straw.  In  each  oven  was  a 
shelf  on  which  lay  the  eggs.  A  coolie  walked 
leisurely  around,  blowing  at  a  bed  of  dying  charcoal, 
or  banking  down  one  that  flamed  too  brightly. 
The  next  room  was  the  most  interesting.  Above 
our  heads,  in  long  shallow  bunks,  under  the  ceiling, 
were  laid  hatching  eggs.  I  had  to  climb  up  on  a 
stool  to  see  the  shelves.  They  were  covered,  some 
with  padded  cotton  comforts,  just  as  if  the  eggs 
were  persons,  and  some  with  layers  of  warm  thick 
straw.  The  uppermost  bunk  was  the  hottest. 
Bigger  ovens  heated  this  room.  Standing  on 
the  stool  brought  my  head  just  on  a  level  with 
the  surface  of  the  lowest  shelf.  This  one  was 
covered  with  yellow  straw.  “Peep,  Peep”,  I  heard 
the  sound  everywhere.  Through  the  straw  I  saw 
myriads  of  gaping  yellow  beaks  sticking  up  for  air 
and  food.  Every  moment  another  head  appeared. 
By  listening  closely  I  fancied  I  heard  the  soft 
breaking  of  countless  eggshells.  A  chick  was  born 
every  second !  And  this  had  been  going  on  from 
time  immemorial !  On  one  shelf  a  brood  of  fluffy, 
feathery  chicks  were  feeding.  Soft  and  yellow  and 
warm,  they  ran  about  gaily.  I  wanted  one. 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  WELL  189 


“How  much?”  I  asked. 

“The  big  one,  one  cent,”  the  egg-hatcher  answered. 
“The  little  new  ones  only  a  half  a  cent.” 

“What  would  you  do  with  it?”  asked  Edward. 

“I’d  take  it  to  the  Li  children  to  play  with,”  I 
said. 

“Then  you  shan’t  have  one,”  said  Edward.  “The 
children  would  only  tease  it  and  neglect  it.  It  is 
much  better  off  here.” 

I  knew  it  was,  so  I  didn’t  insist.  Children  can  be 
so  cruel  without  meaning  to.  I  walked  around  the 
two  rooms  again,  looking  at  the  smooth,  round  white 
eggs  in  their  little  shallow  pans  over  the  charcoal 
stove,  warming  themselves  to  life,  and  at  the  myriads 
of  hatching  chicks  peeping  in  the  straw.  Thousands, 
tens  of  thousands  of  little,  fluffy,  downy  chicks  coming 
to  life  every  day !  The  old  egg-hatcher  was  amused 
at  my  pleasure. 

“Plenty  good  business,”  he  said,  “but  no  good 
for  sleeping.” 

On  the  way  to  the  house  of  Li  we  ran  across  the 
workshop  of  a  potter  and  his  son.  They  sat  in 
the  open  front  room  of  the  house.  A  daughter  or 
the  son’s  wife  sat  on  a  narrow  settle  in  the  sun  before 
the  house,  embroidering  a  pair  of  blue  satin  slippers. 
On  a  dark,  stained  table  behind  her  were  three 
covered  cups  of  tea  and  a  brass  hot-water  kettle. 
Along  one  side  of  the  room  were  rows  of  shallow 
shelves  on  which  stood  vases  of  blue  and  white 
plum-blossom  pattern.  The  boy  was  not  working, 
only  the  old  man  sat  at  his  wheel  and  molded  the 
wet  clay. 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


190 

“Let’s  watch  just  one  half  minute,”  I  said  to 
Edward.  “It  fascinates  me  to  see  the  shape 
emerge.” 

The  old  man  looked  up  from  his  wheel.  He  had 
a  benevolent,  kindly  smile ;  his  eyes  looked  pre¬ 
occupied.  From  the  wet  mound  of  clay  at  his  side 
he  pulled  off  a  lump  and  stuck  it  on  his  revolving 
wheel.  He  looked  up  again  at  us,  but  his  fingers 
went  on  shaping  the  wet  mass  of  clay.  Not  once 
did  he  glance  at  the  evolving  vase,  but  as  if  by  magic, 
under  his  caressing  fingers,  the  formless  lump  took 
form  and  shape.  It  sprang  up,  it  hollowed  itself 
within,  it  curved  in  at  the  neck  and  flared  out  at  the 
mouth,  all  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  while  the  an¬ 
cient  past-master  of  his  art  looked  at  us  with  his 
benevolent,  kindly  eyes.  The  girl  and  the  boy 
stopped  in  their  work  to  watch  the  exhibition. 

“Perfect,”  I  cried. 

“Marvelous,”  said  Edward,  with  genuine  admira¬ 
tion. 

The  boy  spoke  to  the  girl  rapidly.  She  put 
down  her  embroidery  and  came  up  and  stood  beside 
us. 

“My  husband  tells  me  to  say  to  you  that  our 
father  is  blind.  Long  ago  when  he  was  a  young  man 
he  worked  in  the  great  pottery  factories  up  the  river 
at  Ching  tuh  Chen.  He  was  one  of  the  most  expert. 
After  many  years,  little  white  stones  grew  in  his 
eyes.  We  came  down  here  to  the  foreign  doctors 
to  have  them  taken  out,  but  it  was  useless ;  even  the 
foreign-born  magician  could  not  make  him  see  again. 
Then,  for  many  moons,  father  sat  in  the  sun  and 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  WELL  191 

the  shade  and  mourned.  A  sorrowful  spirit  entered 
into  him.  One  day,  while  he  sat  in  the  shade 
mourning,  I  went  and  found  a  lump  of  clay  and  put  it 
in  his  hands.  He  pulled  and  twisted  and  patted  it 
because  he  loved  to  feel  of  it  in  his  fingers.  At 
night,  when  my  husband  came  back,  the  father 
pulled  his  ear  down  against  his  lips  and  whispered 
into  it.  ‘It  is  a  great  foolishness,’  said  my  hus¬ 
band  to  me  in  the  night,  ‘but  we  must  get  it  for  him. 
He  wants  a  potter’s  wheel.’ 

“So  we  sent  up  river  by  some  friends  of  ours  for  a 
wheel  exactly  like  the  ones  he  had  used  in  his  youth. 
Even  before  the  wheel  came,  a  wonderful  change 
came  over  father.  He  smiled  to  himself  as  he  sat 
in  the  sun  and  the  shade,  and  pressed  his  lump  of 
clay  now  this  way,  now  that.  At  last  the  day  came 
that  the  wheel  was  set  up  in  the  room  just  as  you 
see  it  now,  and  the  pleasant  sound  of  its  whirring 
filled  the  house.  Father  touched  it  all  over,  piece 
by  piece,  as  a  mother  would  touch  the  face  of  her 
child.  My  husband  and  I  stood  by  him,  pleased. 
I  handed  him  a  fresh  lump  of  clay,  for  we  had  also 
sent  for  a  boatload  of  some  of  the  up-river  earth. 
He  stuck  it  on  the  wheel.  Around  flew  the  wheel. 
Father’s  fingers  felt  their  way  magically  from  curve 
to  curve.  It  was  a  vase.  Then  it  was  my  honor¬ 
able  man  had  the  idea  of  making  it  a  business.  We 
call  them  the  ‘lucky  vases’,  because  a  blind  man 
makes  them.  That  was  five  years  ago,  and  now 
our  business  is  good.  We  have  money  enough 
to  send  our  two  boys  and  our  one  girl  to  the 
mission  school  to  learn  the  wisdom  of  the  world. 


192 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


And  now  you  see  that  father  smiles  and  is  happy 
all  the  day  long.” 

We  bought  a  lucky  vase. 

“Did  you  notice  what  made  him  happy,  Edward  ?  ” 
I  asked.  "It  was  work.” 

Edward  didn’t  notice  where  my  question  was 
leading.  “Yes,”  he  said,  “a  man  must  have  his 
work.”  3 

“And  what  about  a  woman?”  I  asked. 

“A  woman  has  love,”  he  said,  “and  home  and 
babies.” 

“It  is  not  enough,”  I  said  to  myself  but  not 
aloud  to  Edward. 

Even  these  mental  words  startled  me.  They  were 
the  identical  words  of  the  Favorite  Bride  of  Li.  I 
was  carried  swiftly  back  to  the  twilight  Pool  of 
the  Tortoises,  when  she  and  I  stood  beside  the 
lattice,  bending  over  the  dim  brown  water.  “It  is 
not  enough,”  she  had  said,  when  I  reminded  her 
of  the  love  of  Li.  I  understood  her  perfectly.  It 
was  not  enough.  We  were  like  chrysalises  tearing 
our  way  with  pain  and  sorrow  out  from  a  silken 
cocoon.  Love  said,  “Stay  inside  where  it  is  soft 
and  silken  and  warm.  ”  Ah  !  it  was  a  temptation. 

But  none  of  these  things  did  I  say  to  Edward.  He 
would  not  have  understood ;  he  would  only  have 
thought  I  was  foolish  and  fanciful  and  didn’t  know 
my  own  mind.  Perhaps  I  didn’t.  Perhaps  the 
bride  of  Li  didn’t  know  what  she  wanted.  She 
thought  it  was  a  son,  I  thought  it  was  work.  We 
both  only  knew  that  the  silken  cocoon  was  not 
enough. 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  WELL  193 


The  swift  southern  night  was  upon  us  when  we 
reached  the  House  of  Li.  It  was  decked  as  for  a 
festival :  gorgeous  lanterns  hung  at  each  side  of  the 
gate,  as  long  as  a  man  and  as  round  as  a  barrel. 
Their  yellow  candle  flames  shining  through  the  red 
paper  cast  a  mellow  glow  over  the  doorway.  The 
servants,  in  fresh,  white,  long  garments,  waited  to 
receive  us.  Smaller  lanterns  hung  about  the  garden. 
The  guest  hall  was  draped  in  crimson  hangings,  and 
tall  red  tapers  flared  on  the  ancestral  table  at  the 
end  of  the  room,  facing  the  open  threshold  of  the 
hall.  The  mother-in-law,  Li  Sien  San,  and  his 
wives  and  children  were  assembled  to  greet  us, 
making  a  modification  of  true  Chinese  etiquette  in 
allowing  the  women  to  share  in  the  reception. 
Doctor  Grace  was  already  there.  For  the  feast  we 
separated,  the  men  eating  in  the  great  hall  itself  and 
we  having  a  room  adjoining.  Doctor  Grace  sat  at 
the  table  of  honor  with  the  mother-in-law,  and  I  sat 
at  the  next  table  with  Li  Ta  Ta  and  the  fourth  wife. 
The  bare  tables  were  as  clean  as  fresh  snow.  At 
each  place  were  placed  chopsticks  and  a  small 
spoon  with  a  short  handle  of  ancient  pewter.  The 
servants  brought  in  the  first  dish,  a  bowl  of  clear 
soup  with  a  single  pigeon’s  egg  floating  in  it.  The 
white  of  the  egg  had  a  translucent  appearance  like 
the  look  of  milky  blue  opal.  The  Chinese  balanced 
the  egg  delicately  on  their  chopsticks.  I  tried  it 
too,  but  halfway  to  my  mouth  it  fell  back  into  the 
bowl  of  soup  with  a  geyserlike  splash.  I  was 
chagrined,  though  I  saw  it  really  didn’t  matter. 
There  was  no  tablecloth  to  ruin,  and  a  damp  towel 


194 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


soon  made  my  place  as  immaculate  as  before. 
When  the  larger  bowls  of  stewed  duck  were  brought 
in,  Li  Ta  Ta  and  Pau  Tsu  vied  with  each  other  in 
helping  me  to  tempting  morsels.  “Just  a  little, 
little  more,”  Li  Ta  Ta  would  say,  reaching  out  with 
her  chopsticks  to  the  bowl  in  the  center  of  the  table. 
She  would  fish  around  among  the  slices  of  meat  till 
she  found  one  especially  savory,  then  convey  it  to 
my  tiny  saucer.  There  is  something  extremely 
gracious  and  hospitable  in  this  Chinese  manner  of 
picking  out  a  tempting  morsel  for  the  guest  of  honor. 
It  is  a  relic  of  the  days  when  hospitality  was  an  art 
of  life,  and  the  host  served,  the  servitors  merely 
bringing  in  fresh  food  and  clearing  away  the  used 
dishes.  The  amahs  and  children  sat  at  a  third 
table  in  the  same  room. 

The  mother-in-law  made  a  sort  of  speech.  She 
was  talking  only  to  Doctor  Grace,  but  we  all  listened. 

“It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  and  my  son  Li  to 
invite  the  foreign-born  healers  to  our  humble  feast. 
The  feast  is  to  do  honor  to  the  foreigner,  but  not  in 
honor  of  the  little  dog  that  has  been  born  to  the 
house,  nor  of  its  low-born  mother.  As  for  them,  it 
would  be  better  had  they  never  been  born.”  The 
mother-in-law  cast  a  malevolent  glance  at  Pau  Tsu. 
I  saw  the  girl  shiver.  From  that  time  her  manner 
changed.  It  was  as  if  she  had  forgotten  something 
unpleasant  during  the  first  part  of  the  evening,  and 
had  been  suddenly  reminded  of  it.  She  sat  silent 
and  wordless  and  pushed  away  her  food.  The 
baby  began  to  cry.  The  amah  promptly  began 
to  nurse  it,  but  still  she  cried.  She  refused  to 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  WELL  195 


be  comforted  by  food,  turned  away  her  head,  and 
cried  and  cried. 

“Take  the  little  dog  out  of  my  sight,”  said  the 
mother-in-law.  “Take  it  where  I  cannot  hear  the 
sound  of  its  howling.” 

The  amah  hurried  from  the  room  with  the  wailing 
baby.  We  heard  the  sound  of  its  crying  diminish, 
as  an  echo  grows  fainter  and  fainter.  When  we 
heard  it  no  more,  the  house  was  strangely  still,  as  if 
life  had  left  it.  Pau  Tsu  rose  without  a  word  and 
followed  it  from  the  room.  We  heard  the  patter, 
patter  of  her  stilted  feet  through  the  uncarpeted 
rooms  beyond. 

After  that  the  food  was  tasteless  to  me,  it  choked 
me.  I  felt  I  was  eating  the  poisoned  dishes  of  an 
evil-eyed  ogress.  I  strained  my  ears,  listening  for 
any  sound  of  footsteps  or  voices  in  the  rooms  over¬ 
head.  By  and  by  the  amah  came  in  quietly. 

“The  mistress  sent  me  back  to  help  with  the 
serving,”  she  said  in  Li  Ta  Ta’s  ear.  “She  herself 
has  taken  the  infant  and  stilled  her  crying.” 

On  went  the  interminable  feasting.  Dish  after 
elaborate  dish  was  placed  before  us.  At  the  next 
table  Doctor  Grace  talked  easily.  Li  Ta  Ta  talked 
to  me,  but  I  didn’t  hear  a  word  of  what  she  was 
saying.  One  thought  filled  my  brain  :  I  must  man¬ 
age  to  slip  out  of  the  room  and  hunt  through  the 
silent  upper  stories  of  the  house  for  the  girl  bride  and 
her  baby.  I  thought  of  Pau  Tsu  sitting  upstairs, 
alone  in  her  room,  with  her  baby  clasped  in  her 
arms,  her  eyes  glazed  with  misery  and  bitterness.  No 
one  paid  any  attention  to  her  prolonged  absence. 


ig6 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


We  drank  our  last  sip  of  the  fragrant  hot  wine 
poured  into  tiny,  thimble-sized  bowls.  We  nibbled 
candied  lotus  buds.  We  wiped  our  hands  and  faces 
on  the  perfumed,  steaming-hot  towels.  In  the  guest 
hall  musicians  began  a  weird,  haunting  tune.  In 
the  confusion  of  rising  from  the  table,  I  managed  to 
slip  into  the  back  room  unobserved.  A  steep,  ladder¬ 
like  flight  of  steps  confronted  me.  Holding  my 
skirts  high,  lest  I  trip  on  them  in  front,  I  crept  up 
the  steps  feeling  like  a  thief.  When  a  board  creaked 
I  stood  still  and  held  my  breath,  and  looked  over  my 
shoulder  to  see  if  I  were  followed.  At  the  top  of 
the  stairs  I  hesitated,  not  knowing  which  way  to 
turn.  The  upper  floor  was  deserted  ;  all  the  children 
and  servants  were  down  at  the  feasting.  I  listened, 
but  no  sound  of  breathing,  not  the  rustle  of  a  dress 
fold,  helped  me  to  decide  which  way  to  go.  I  took 
off  my  shoes.  I  couldn’t  have  explained  my  wish 
for  secrecy,  I  only  knew  that  my  errand  would  be 
frustrated  by  the  accompaniment  of  any  one  else. 
To-day  I  knew  that  I  could  comfort  Pau  Tsu.  I  had 
gained  the  knowledge  that  comes  of  true  sympathy. 
I  knew  I  would  be  able  to  encourage  her,  only  I 
must  speak  to  her  alone.  Not  that  I  had  any  solu¬ 
tion  of  her  difficulty  to  suggest  to  her,  not  at  all.  I 
had  no  solution  for  my  own  difficulty,  yet  I  had 
sympathy  and  courage. 

I  stole  from  room  to  room,  no  longer  wondering 
which  way  to  go.  I  went  everywhere,  even  to  the 
rooms  of  the  servants  connected  with  the  main 
quarters  of  the  house  by  a  narrow  balcony  at  the 
back.  Room  after  room  I  found  empty  and  without 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  WELL  197 


an  occupant.  Why  didn’t  the  baby  cry  again?  I 
repeated  my  path  of  search,  thinking  I  must  have 
overlooked  some  retiring  room.  The  floor  was 
tenantless  !  From  below  came  the  wailing  strains  of 
Chinese  violins  and  the  clear  sound  of  a  flute.  Voices, 
merry  and  talking  together,  sounded  in  a  gay  babel. 
I  looked  from  a  window  of  the  women’s  room  on  the 
second  floor  down  upon  the  court  in  front  of  the 
guest  hall.  It  was  filled  with  servants.  Our  donkeys 
stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  gateway  with  their  group 
of  donkey  boys  squatted  on  the  ground  beside  them. 
Two  sedan  chairs  and  their  bearers  were  in  another 
group.  Beggars  and  a  few  curious  stragglers  were 
peeping  through  the  gateway.  Li  Sien  San  and 
Edward  reposed  on  the  couch  of  honor,  smoking. 
A  blaze  of  light  and  warmth  and  rich  color  shot  up 
into  the  black  blue  night  from  the  scene  below.  A 
juggler  stepped  forward  from  the  crowd.  They 
surged  about  him,  carrying  him  close  before  Edward 
and  Li.  I  saw  a  bright  green  snake  shot  up  into 
the  air.  The  crowd  shouted  with  delight.  The 
amahs,  emboldened  by  the  preoccupation  of  the 
house,  joined  the  fringe  of  the  crowd.  At  the  door¬ 
way  of  the  feasting  room  of  the  women  stood  a 
group  of  the  women  of  the  house. 

A  great  fear  suddenly  turned  me  sick.  The  story 
of  the  gatekeeper  at  the  House  of  the  Dead,  the 
unlucky  vision  of  the  bride  that  haunted  the  Pool 
of  the  Tortoises,  and  Pau  Tsu’s  disappearance  filled 
me  with  apprehension.  Where  could  she  be?  I 
wanted  to  rush  down  into  the  midst  of  that  feasting 
company  and  call  out  to  Li,  “You  have  lost  your 


198 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


Loved  Pau  Tsu.”  I  pictured  the  commotion,  the 
scattering  of  the  musicians  and  the  revelers.  Yet 
more  vividly  I  knew  the  anger  of  the  mother-in-law. 
She  would  hate  the  girl  more  than  ever  and  persecute 
her  —  that  is,  if  she  were  living. 

I  had  hardly  any  hope  left.  Carefully,  systemati¬ 
cally,  I  re-searched  the  rooms,  pulling  back  the 
silken  curtains  at  each  bed,  and  peering  into  the 
dim  recesses  behind.  I  even  slipped  my  hand  in 
and  ran  it  over  the  quilts,  lest  in  the  darkness  of 
the  candles  I  miss  a  still  form.  Bed  after  bed  was 
empty.  Three  times  I  had  searched  the  rooms.  I 
stood  still  and  pressed  my  hands  over  my  beating 
heart. 

There  was  still  the  garden  and  the  swiftly  running 
river  along  its  walls  and  the  deep,  deep  well  where 
the  summer  clouds  lay  like  sky  flakes  in  its  mirror. 
Fear  lent  me  wings ;  I  was  out  in  the  garden. 
Beyond  the  radius  of  the  lanterns’  glow,  the  shadows 
were  black  and  gloomy.  The  moon  was  covered 
with  thin  clouds  which  raced  across  its  surface, 
driven  by  a  rising  wind.  The  papery  leaves  of 
the  young  bamboo  trees  shivered.  The  cypresses 
hardly  moved  but  cast  their  black  shadows  all  about 
me.  I  ran  to  the  water  gate.  It  was  barred,  and 
I  could  not  draw  the  bolts ;  I  crouched  against  it  and 
listened.  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  listening  for, 
perhaps  a  wail  or  the  backward-floating  cry  of  a 
child.  I  heard  the  soft,  gentle  swish-swish  of  the 
silent  water  and  no  more.  I  ran  to  the  well  and 
peered  over.  It  lay,  a  shaft  of  impenetrable  black¬ 
ness,  before  me,  yet  I  waited.  The  wind  rose, 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  WELL  199 


and  the  thin  clouds  covering  the  full  moon  were 
torn  into  shreds  and  scarfs  of  chiffon.  Full  and 
clear,  shining  like  a  silver  shield,  the  moon  freed 
herself  of  the  cloudy  drapery.  Right  down  into 
the  well  it  shone,  as  I  peered  over.  Deep  down  I 
saw  a  face ;  I  thought  it  the  reflection  of  my  own. 
Fascinated,  I  looked  and  looked.  I  lifted  up  my 
hand  and  pushed  back  the  hair  from  my  face,  but 
the  mirrored  face  made  no  such  jesture.  I  screamed 
with  terror.  Flying  through  the  yard,  I  burst  into 
the  guest  hall  where  the  juggler  still  juggled,  and 
the  musicians  played  their  weird,  melancholy  music. 

“Edward,”  I  cried,  “come.” 

I  caught  his  hands  and  ran  with  him  through  the 
garden  to  where  the  face  still  looked  up  at  the  sailing 
moon.  It  seemed  to  have  moved.  The  moonlight 
shone  on  it  with  soft,  tender  beams.  Beside  it 
cuddled  another,  smaller,  tiny  face. 

They  had  found  a  sanctuary. 


XVII 

WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL! 


AFTER  that  dreadful  night  when  we  pulled 
little  Pau  Tsu  and  her  drowned  baby  out 
of  the  well  I  sent  Edward  away.  I  was 
thrown  into  one  of  those  crises  of  emotion  and  thought 
which  we  all  have  to  pass  through ;  I  was  utterly 
unreasonable.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  only 
happiness  for  a  woman  lay  in  repudiating  her  woman¬ 
hood,  in  becoming  a  neuter  sex  like  the  bee- workers. 
I  suppose  I  didn’t  think  at  all,  I  simply  felt  that  I 
couldn’t  marry,  at  least  not  till  the  horrible  impres¬ 
sion  of  the  fate  of  the  wives  of  Li  had  somewhat  worn 
off. 

“I’ll  wait  as  long  as  you  want,”  said  Edward, 
“only  don’t  send  me  away.  Let  me  be  near  you. 
Let  me  help  you  now  when  you  need  me.” 

But  I  couldn’t.  “You  have  to  go  away,”  I  said. 
“Oh  !  not  far,  nor  not  for  long,  but  so  that  I  do  not 
see  you.  When  I  see  you,  or  when  you  put  out 
your  hand  and  touch  me,  I  can’t  think.  You  must 
give  me  time  to  get  hold  of  myself  again.  Surely, 
soon  I  will  know  what  to  do.  But  this  is  one  of 
the  places  that  a  human  being  must  fight  through 
alone,  if  he  wants  to  be  an  adult  soul.” 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


201 


So  I  sent  him  away,  and  the  world  turned  to  utter 
desolation.  He  left  one  morning,  just  walked  out 
of  the  house  and  said  he  wouldn’t  be  able  to  see  me 
for  a  while.  I  had  no  address,  I  didn’t  know  where 
he  was  going,  or  what  he  was  going  to  do,  or  when 
he  would  come  back.  I  suddenly  found  I  had  been 
very  foolish  to  let  him  go  like  that,  without  knowing 
all  about  him.  Doctor  Donnellon  and  Miss  Laurie 
were  standing  around  us  in  the  hall  when  he  said 
good-by,  so  that  I  couldn’t  ask  him  anything. 
The  days  went  by  in  a  dragging  dreariness.  In 
those  desolate  hours  I  learned  a  great  deal  more  about 
love  than  I  had  known  before.  I  learned,  for  one 
thing,  that  work  is  only  absorbing  and  satisfactory 
if  the  heart  is  securely  anchored.  I  hated  my  work  ; 
I  forced  myself  out  of  bed  every  morning  and  dragged 
myself  about  the  wards.  The  patients  were  so 
dirty  and  smelly !  It  was  such  a  hopeless  task  to 
cure  them !  And  even  if  I  did  cure  them,  there 
were  so  many  more  to  be  cured  !  A  never-ending 
stream  of  sick  humanity  came  in  at  the  gates.  I 
wanted  to  lie  in  bed  and  do  nothing,  to  eat  less, 
and  to  pity  myself.  But  the  pressure  of  the  daily 
routine  saved  me,  gave  me  back  my  sanity  again, 
though  it  came  slowly,  inch  by  inch,  through  the 
long  months  that  followed.  Doctor  Donnellon 
went  away  on  her  vacation.  Miss  Laurie  and  I  were 
left  alone,  and  then  even  Miss  Laurie  went  up-river 
to  a  Nurses’  Conference.  I  was  busy  from  morning 
to  night. 

One  afternoon  Mrs.  Maitland  called  with  a  new 
nurse.  Mrs.  Maitland  is  little  and  slim  and  has 


202 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


been  in  China  twenty-five  years.  When  she  first 
came  out,  she  was  a  China  Inland  Mission  worker, 
way  up  in  the  interior.  Now  she  is  in  Shanghai 
and  directs  the  policy  of  a  chain  of  girls’  boarding 
schools.  I  always  liked  Mrs.  Maitland  to  come  to 
see  us.  She  was  my  ideal  of  what  a  missionary 
should  be,  not  “goody-goody”  at  all,  nor  always 
preaching,  but  radiating  something  happy  and  peace¬ 
ful.  The  Chinese  girls  idolized  her. 

“I’ve  brought  you  a  new  probationer,”  she  said. 
“E  Tsung”  (love  and  honor). 

The  prettiest  little  Chinese  girl  shook  hands  with 
me.  She  had  rosy  cheeks  and  merry  brown  eyes 
and  a  very  quick  responsive  smile. 

“She  has  rather  an  interesting  history,”  continued 
Mrs.  Maitland.  “Almost  twenty  years  ago,  when 
I  was  in  the  interior,  I  was  riding  along  the  banks  of 
a  canal.  It  was  in  the  summer,  and  the  water  in 
the  canal  had  shrunk  to  a  mere  moving  trickle  of 
brown  mud.  The  house  boats  had  been  left  high 
and  dry  on  the  steep,  shelving  bank,  and  a  veritable 
village  of  mat-sheds  had  sprung  up  beside  the  boats. 
Four  bamboo  poles,  four  square  mats  of  woven 
fiber  and  the  fifth  for  the  roof  made  a  mat-shed. 
There  were  no  doors.  If  you  wanted  to  enter,  you 
picked  up  one  of  the  flapping  mats  and  crawled  in. 
It  was  a  hot  afternoon.  All  the  rest  of  the  mission 
were  indoors.  I  would  not  have  been  out  myself 
but  that  word  had  come  from  one  of  the  Bible 
women  that  a  convert,  an  old  woman,  was  very  sick 
in  the  next  village.  So  I  took  a  wheelbarrow  and 
started  out.  The  wheelbarrow  man  stopped  every 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


203 


few  moments  to  mop  himself.  He  did  it  thoroughly, 
beginning  at  his  eyes  and  only  stopping  at  his  tightly 
drawn  belt.  Along  this  mud  river,  the  stench  was 
horrible.  Flies  and  mosquitoes  buzzed  in  the  air. 
Naked  babies  and  mangy  dogs  played  with  each 
other  in  front  of  the  huts.  At  the  door  of  one  hut, 
the  mat  over  the  opening  was  looped  back.  A 
crowd  of  women  were  gathered  about  the  doorway, 
wailing  aloud.  Children  hung  to  the  skirts  of  their 
mothers.  Wisps  of  unbleached  white  cloth  were  tied 
around  the  arms  of  two  or  three  of  the  mourners. 
My  wheelbarrow  man  stopped  to  rest  and  dry  off.  I 
got  down  from  my  narrow  shelf  on  one  side  of  the 
wheel  and  approached  the  mourners. 

“‘The  old  woman  has  become  nothing,’  they  said. 
‘She  died  this  morning.  Her  daughter  died  yester¬ 
day.  There  remains  only  the  young  aunt  and  this 
new-born  baby.’ 

“‘Where  is  the  father?’  I  asked. 

“‘We  know  not  the  father,’  they  replied.  ‘The 
aunt  says  he  is  a  river  man  who  comes  by  here  when 
the  river  is  in  flood,  but  no  one  knows  him.  We 
think  to  bury  the  baby  with  her  mother,  for  there  is 
no  one  to  care  for  it.’ 

“‘Yes,’  said  the  aunt,  ‘we  must  bury  the  baby. 
I  am  about  to  go  to  the  home  of  my  mother-in-law, 
and  I  cannot  take  a  sucking  child  with  me.  We  will 
bury  them  all  three  together  in  one  coffin.’ 

“Within  the  hut,  which  was  no  bigger  than  a 
large  packing  box,  lay  the  dead  bodies  of  two  women. 
In  the  crook  of  a  dead  woman’s  elbow  lay  a  little, 
warm,  living  child.  It  had  been  wrapped  in  rags, 


204 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


filthy  rags,  full  of  lice,  but  it  lay  there,  in  the  bend  of 
the  dead  woman’s  arm,  contented  and  smiling.  It 
was  so  young  that  it  was  not  yet  hungry. 

“‘Give  it  to  me,’  I  said. 

'  “Some  one  caught  up  the  baby  and  placed  her  in 
my  arms. 

“‘Yes,  yes,  we  will  give  the  baby  to  the  foreign- 
born  healer  to  be  her  adopted  child.  We  do  not 
want  the  baby  at  all.  We  would  bury  the  baby 
alive.  It  will  be  more  better  that  the  foreign-born 
teacher  take  the  child  for  her  own.’ 

“‘The  women  clamored  around  me.  I  was  silent 
with  astonishment.  I  had  only  wanted  to  see  the 
baby  when  I  said  ‘give  her  to  me.’  But  to  them  my 
request  had  suggested  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 
The  baby  snuggled  against  me  as  if  she  were  glad 
not  to  be  pressed  against  that  cold,  dead  body  any 
longer.  I  was  a  new  missionary.  I  knew  that 
often  the  mission  was  involved  in  legal  difficulties  by 
just  such  a  gift  of  transfer,  yet  I  could  not  go  away 
and  put  that  baby  back  beside  its  dead  mother. 
My  wheelbarrow  man  decided  the  question  for  me. 

I  don’t  know  how  long  I  would  have  stood  there, 
pondering.  ‘Come,  Missey,’  he  said.  ‘Too  muchee 
hot.  Must  go  on.’ 

“I  wrote  my  name  and  address  on  a  slip  of  paper 
and  gave  it  to  the  aunt.  I  also  took  her  name  and 
the  name  of  her  mother-in-law,  who  lived  in  an 
adjoining  hut.  I  didn’t  promise  to  adopt  the  baby, 
as  they  all  wanted,  but  I  did  tell  them  I  would  look 
after  it.  I  made  the  aunt  say  she  would  come  to 
the  mission  once  a  month  to  see  the  child. 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


205 


“  I  got  back  on  the  wheelbarrow  with  the  strange, 
dirty  beggar  baby  in  my  arms.  At  the  house  of 
the  convert  I  found  the  old  woman  much  better. 
Together  we  dressed  and  washed  the  baby  and  gave 
it  its  first  feeding  of  warm  goat’s  milk.  The  old 
woman  took  a  fancy  to  the  child.  She  said  to 
me  she  knew  more  about  bringing  up  babies  than 
I  did  —  I  wasn’t  married  then.  She  said  also  that 
she  knew  what  it  was  necessary  for  a  Chinese  child 
to  know.  She  asked  me  to  leave  the  baby  with  her, 
to  bring  up  till  she  was  old  enough  to  go  to  the 
mission  boarding  school.  That  is  the  story  of  E 
Tsung.  She  graduated  at  the  mission  boarding 
school  last  spring.  She  is  only  eighteen  and  she 
chooses  not  to  be  married  yet.  She  herself  asked 
to  be  a  nurse.” 

That  was  how  Pretty  came  to  us.  She  was  the 
gayest,  most  agile  youngster.  Nothing  was  too 
hard  for  her,  nothing  too  tiring.  Everything  in¬ 
terested  her.  Miss  Laurie  fell  in  love  with  her  at 
once.  “That  girl  will  make  a  good  nurse,”  she 
said  enthusiastically.  “She  is  worth  any  amount 
of  training.  But  I  suppose  she  will  get  married 
right  away  and  spoil  it  all.  She  can  manage 
anybody.” 

We  started  volley  ball  that  fall  for  the  nurses.  We 
strung  up  an  old  tennis  net  in  the  yard  and  divided 
the  girls  into  two  teams.  When  they  took  off  their 
aprons  to  play,  they  looked  the  cutest,  most  frolic¬ 
some  set  of  children  on  earth.  And  Pretty  was  the 
quickest  and  brightest  among  them ;  she  was  a 
universal  favorite.  Another  pastime  of  the  nurses 


206 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


was  the  Virginia  Reel.  I  sat  at  the  little  organ  and 
played  the  Swanee  River,  the  only  tune  I  knew,  and 
the  nurses  danced  their  cheeks  pink.  They  were 
more  like  irresponsible  children  than  independent, 
trained  nurses.  Miss  Laurie  used  to  worry  over  it. 

"How  shall  I  ever  make  them  grow  up  and  take 
responsibility?”  she  said. 

"You  can’t,”  I  answered.  "It  will  happen  of 
itself.  You  can’t  make  them  into  American  women. 
You  must  let  them  take  their  time.  You  have 
to  treat  them  like  boarding-school  girls.” 

Whenever  the  girls  went  out,  they  were  accom¬ 
panied  by  an  amah,  a  respectable  and  trustworthy 
woman  we  employed  just  for  that  purpose. 

One  afternoon  Pretty  and  A-doo  and  the  chaperone 
went  out  together.  About  five  o’clock  A-doo  and 
the  amah  came  back.  They  hurried  across  the  com¬ 
pound  and  asked  for  Miss  Laurie,  but  Miss  Laurie 
was  out,  so  I  saw  them. 

"E  Tsung  is  gone,”  they  said. 

"Gone  where?”  I  asked. 

"We  do  not  know,”  they  said.  "Simply  she  is 
gone.  We  walked  along  Bubbling  Well  and  then 
down  Nanking  Road,  looking  in  the  shop  windows. 
We  came  to  the  new  Chinese  theater  where  there  is  a 
magic  box  which  shoots  one  rapidly  up  to  the  top  of 
the  building.  From  the  roof  one  can  see  all  the 
world.  E  Tsung  said  she  wanted  to  go  up.  We 
would  not  have  gone  of  ourselves,  but  E  Tsung 
wanted  to.  Also  we  had  heard  the  matron,  who  had 
gone  up,  say  it  was  harmless.  We  had  to  pay  a 
little,  but  we  had  enough  money.  I  felt  a  very 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


207 


terrifying  sickness  as  we  left  the  earth,”  said  A- 
doo.  “I  looked  at  E  Tsung,  and  she  looked  as  if 
she  would  soon  lose  her  eyes  ;  they  were  popping  out 
of  her  head.  But  she  said  she  liked  it.  At  the 
top  we  got  out  on  a  kind  of  square  platform  and 
looked  off  in  all  directions  at  all  the  world.  We  saw 
the  Whangpoo  and  the  boats  and  the  yellow  mist 
where  lies  the  Great  Yangtse.  We  were  very  busy 
looking  first  this  way  and  that.  We  were  higher 
than  the  Loong  Wha  pagoda.  We  saw  its  tower  on 
a  level  with  our  eyes  across  the  fields.  We  could 
look  down  on  Nanking  Road  and  see  the  carriages 
crawling  as  slowly  as  ants.  Then  we  looked  for 
E  Tsung,  and  she  was  gone.  We  asked  everybody, 
but  no  one  had  seen  her.  How  could  she  leave 
but  by  the  rising  and  falling  box?  And  how  could 
she  have  vanished  without  our  knowledge?” 

A-doo  and  the  amah  were  very  much  excited,  and 
so,  for  that  matter,  was  I.  The  loss  of  a  girl  in 
Shanghai  is  no  laughing  matter,  especially  of  such 
a  young  and  pretty  one  as  E  Tsung.  She  had  never 
been  out  alone  in  all  her  life.  I  told  A-doo  and  the 
amah  not  to  tell  any  of  the  nurses  of  Pretty’s  dis¬ 
appearance,  for  I  did  not  want  to  ruin  the  girl’s 
reputation  while  there  yet  might  be  hope  of  her 
coming  back.  I  didn’t  know  what  to  do,  so  I 
phoned  Mrs.  Maitland. 

“E  Tsung  is  here,”  she  said.  “I  have  told  her 
she  must  never  run  away  like  that  again.  I  have 
told  her  to  go  right  to  you  and  apologize.” 

I  was  weak  with  the  sudden  relief.  Half  an 
hour  later,  E  Tsung  came,  all  contrition  and  smiles, 


208 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


to  offer  her  excuses.  Chinese  excuses  are  invariably 
works  of  art,  but  hers  was  a  masterpiece. 

“My  heart  came  up  into  my  mouth  when  we 
were  carried  up  so  far  into  the  clouds,”  she  said. 
“The  earth  was  changed  and  strange.  I  was  afraid 
it  would  vanish  and  be  there  no  longer.  Already  it 
was  only  a  mirage.  I  turned  around  quickly  and 
sprang  back  into  the  descending  box  before  it  should 
go  down  and  leave  me  away  from  everybody,  up 
in  the  clouds.  At  the  bottom,  I  waited  and  waited, 
half  a  day,  for  A-doo  and  the  amah.  They  came 
not.  I  felt  in  my  heart  that  some  evil  thing  had 
happened  to  them.  I  was  afraid  to  come  back  to  the 
hospital  without  them,  so  I  called  a  ricksha  and  went 
to  the  home  of  my  adopted  mother.  She  scolded 
me  for  having  run  away  like  that  and  said  you  would 
be  very  much  worried.  I  am  sorry  for  my  wicked¬ 
ness  and  foolishness.” 

She  was  very  contrite.  Her  breath  came  quickly, 
and  her  eyes  watched  my  face  for  signs  of  anger.  She 
twisted  a  corner  of  her  jacket  in  her  fingers.  I 
scolded  her  severely,  and  forgave  her,  then  dismissed 
her  with  a  heart  full  of  thankfulness  that  no  harm 
had  come  of  the  episode.  I  got  up  and  walked  to 
my  window,  without  any  plan  of  espionage  in  my 
action.  I  was  only  moving  around  aimlessly,  as  we 
all  do  at  times.  I  saw  Pretty  pause  a  moment  on 
the  threshold,  look  cautiously  around,  dance  down  a 
few  steps,  then  wave  her  hands  towards  the  houses 
on  the  left.  After  waving,  she  stopped  as  if  waiting 
an  answering  signal.  Evidently  it  came,  for  she 
waved  again  and  ran  back  to  the  hospital. 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


209 


All  my  peace  of  mind  was  gone.  An  intrigue  was 
brewing.  I  knew  it,  I  felt  it  in  my  bones.  Pretty’s 
little  air  of  triumph  when  she  waved  her  hand  at 
the  invisible  watcher  had  betrayed  her.  Miss 
Laurie  came  home  soon,  and  I  told  her  all  the  story. 
“I  don’t  see  how  you  can  suspect  her,”  she  said 
indignantly.  “I  would  as  soon  suspect  my  sister. 
She  is  too  honest,  too  self-reliant  to  do  anything 
underhand.  She  was  only  waving  her  hand  with 
relief  at  your  forgiveness.  Did  you  see  anybody 
return  her  salute?” 

“No,”  I  said.  “But  don’t  forget  that  the 
Paulun  Hospital  is  visible  through  the  alley.  I 
myself  have  seen  the  Chinese  interns  in  their  white 
uniforms  on  the  upper  balcony.” 

“You  don’t  mean  to  say  you  think  she  would 
carry  on  a  flirtation  with  one  of  them?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  I  said,  “but  that  is  what  I  was 
thinking.” 

“Chinese  girls  don’t  do  such  things,”  said  Miss 
Laurie.  “Our  girls  wouldn’t.  They  are  too  nice.” 

“Anybody  will,”  I  said.  “It’s  not  a  question  of 
being  nice  or  not.  It’s  a  question  of  life.  I  think 
we  ought  to  guard  the  girls  more  carefully.  In¬ 
dependence  is  fermenting  in  the  air.  It’s  a  dan¬ 
gerous  time.” 

“You  want  to  coddle  the  nurses  and  make  babies 
of  them,”  said  Miss  Laurie.  “  I  want  to  make  them 
self-respecting  women.” 

“So  do  I,”  I  agreed.  “Only  I  want  to  watch 
over  them  while  they  are  young,  so  that  they  will 
never  have  an  occasion  for  loss  of  self-respect.” 


210 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“You  suspect  them,”  asserted  Miss  Laurie.  “I 
think  it  is  an  insult.” 

“I  know,”  I  replied. 

There  the  matter  dropped.  When  one  day  Mrs. 
Maitland  came  to  tea,  I  told  her  my  suspicions. 
She  was  Pretty’s  godmother,  and  I  didn’t  want  the 
responsibility  on  my  soul.  She  agreed  with  Miss 
Laurie,  so,  little  by  little,  my  apprehension  was 
stilled. 

One  morning  I  went  over  to  the  hospital  earlier 
than  usual.  On  the  steps  the  nurses  were  gathered 
around  a  flower  woman.  The  flower-seller  held  a 
round,  shallow  basket  slung  over  her  shoulder  by  a 
string.  The  basket  was  full  of  tiny  flower  buds,  tied 
on  invisible  wires,  ready  to  be  hung  on  the  studs 
that  close  a  woman’s  dress  on  the  shoulders,  or  to 
be  stuck  in  the  hair.  The  nurses  were  buying. 
Pretty  stood  at  one  side  of  the  group,  a  flower  lying 
unobserved  at  her  feet,  and  in  her  hand  a  letter. 
It  was  a  long,  thin  Chinese  letter,  written  on  double 
rice  paper.  I  saw  the  graceful  straggling  characters 
going  up  and  down  the  page  from  top  to  bottom. 
Pretty  was  utterly  engrossed ;  her  cheeks  were  a 
bright  pink. 

The  matron,  Wang  S  Moo,  came  out  of  the 
counting  room,  and  saw  me  looking  at  Pretty. 
She  beckoned  to  me  with  her  eyes.  I  followed  her 
into  the  office  and  closed  the  door. 

“Every  day  it  is  so,”  said  Wang  S  Moo.  “The 
postman  brings  a  letter  for  E  Tsung.  When  I  ask 
her  who  writes  it,  she  looks  at  me  angrily  and  says, 
‘It  is  from  my  aunt.’  But  all  the  world  knows  her 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


21  I 


aunt  lives  in  a  mat-shed  and  can  neither  read  nor 
write.  The  nurses  say,  when  she  has  her  off  hours, 
she  goes  into  her  room  and  shuts  the  door,  and  refuses 
to  let  any  one  come  in.  But  one  of  the  nurses 
looked  through  the  keyhole  and  saw  her  writing  a 
letter.  The  gateman  says  that  every  day  E  Tsung 
gives  him  a  cash  to  post  a  letter  for  her.  If  you 
wish,  I  will  tell  the  gateman  not  to  post  the  letter, 
but  to  give  it  to  you.  Then  we  will  find  out  all 
about  the  mischief.” 

“Oh,  we  couldn’t  do  that,”  I  exclaimed,  aghast 
at  the  systematic,  curious  spying. 

“We  must  do  something,”  said  the  matron.  “E 
Tsung  no  longer  does  her  work.  When  she  makes 
the  beds  in  the  morning  she  does  not  sweep  out  the 
crumbs,  she  merely  pulls  the  quilt  straight.  She 
boasts  to  the  other  girls  that  she  will  soon  be  rich 
and  not  have  to  work  any  more.” 

“This  is  dreadful,”  I  said  helplessly.  “I  will 
tell  Miss  Laurie.”  Miss  Laurie,  however,  was 
inclined  to  believe  that  the  matron  had  a  spite 
against  the  girl  because  she  was  so  quick  and  clever 
and  did  her  work  so  well.  Miss  Laurie  refused  to 
accept  such  evidence.  “But  I  tell  you  what  I 
will  do,”  she  said,  “I  will  call  all  the  nurses  together 
and  announce  the  rule  that  no  girl  may  receive 
letters  that  are  not  first  opened  by  me.  I  hate  to 
do  it,  it  seems  so  suspicious,  but  we  don’t  want 
anything  to  happen  to  that  child.  That  will  put 
an  end  to  the  correspondence.” 

A  few  of  the  advanced  spirits  among  the  nurses  re¬ 
sented  the  innovation.  Daily  the  postman  handed 


212 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


the  letters  to  Miss  Laurie,  but  Pretty  got  no  more, 
and  we  congratulated  ourselves  that  the  incident  was 
closed.  Then  one  afternoon  I  went  over  to  the  hos¬ 
pital  about  five  o’clock,  the  time  I  was  least  likely  to 
be  there.  In  the  front  hall,  sitting  on  one  of  the 
stiff  guest  chairs  reserved  for  relatives  of  the  sick,  sat 
a  dapper  young  Chinese  man,  and  before  him  stood 
Pretty,  dressed  in  her  best  clothes,  blushing  and 
smiling.  “Who  is  this  man?’’  I  asked  severely. 

“My  uncle,”  said  Pretty  promptly. 

“Do  you  not  know  you  cannot  receive  men  in  this 
hospital?”  I  asked. 

“Not  strangers,  of  course,”  said  Pretty,  “but  an 
uncle  — ” 

“No,  not  a  young  uncle,”  I  said.  “It  is  not  good 
custom.  If  the  nurses  in  the  hospital  do  not  observe 
good  custom,  no  one  will  want  to  send  their  daughters 
to  us  to  be  trained  for  the  honorable  calling  of  nurse.” 

I  sent  him  off,  and  I  ordered  Pretty  up  to  her 
room  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

“I  think  we  will  have  to  send  her  back  to  Mrs. 
Maitland,”  I  said  to  Miss  Laurie.  “Something  is 
going  on.  I  don’t  trust  her.” 

“That  is  just  the  trouble,”  said  Miss  Laurie. 
“Neither  of  us  trusts  her.  The  matron  suspects 
her  and  spies  on  her.  The  other  nurses  are  jealous 
and  envious.” 

“But  what  can  we  do,”  I  asked 

“I’ll  go  over  and  have  a  talk  with  her,”  said  Miss 
Laurie.  “Won’t  you  come  too?” 

This  was  not  according  to  Chinese  etiquette,  that 
the  superiors  should  go  to  the  inferiors,  but  it  was 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


213 


true  Christianity.  We  had  come  to  break  down 
just  such  barriers  between  woman  and  woman, 
barriers  that  prevent  the  stretching  across  of  a 
helping  hand.  We  decided  to  wait  till  after  supper. 
The  appalling  lack  of  privacy  in  all  Chinese  life 
defeated  our  purpose  of  seeing  Pretty  alone.  First 
we  made  rounds.  The  wards  were  peaceful  and 
quiet.  A  little  new  baby  lay  asleep  in  its  white 
crib  in  the  mother’s  ward.  Its  mother  opened  her 
eyes  at  the  sound  of  our  footsteps  and  put  out  her 
hand  and  patted  the  baby.  The  night  nurses 
followed  us  with  a  candle,  ready  to  light  it,  tip  it 
over,  so  that  a  bit  of  melted  wax  might  drop  on  the 
seat  of  a  stool  or  a  table,  and  stick  the  candle  in 
its  waxen  socket.  The  long  rooms  were  dimly  lit 
by  the  faint  night  bulbs.  On  the  third  story  I 
leaned  out  over  the  railing  and  looked  far  and  wide 
over  the  city.  A  gash  of  light  across  the  sky  marked 
the  path  of  Nanking  Road  through  the  town.  The 
lighted  face  of  the  clock  on  the  watch  tower  shone 
like  a  golden  moon.  Dark  and  silent  and  closely 
packed  together  lay  the  plastered  houses  around  us. 
Directly  in  front  rose  the  dark  outline  of  the  Paulun 
Hospital.  It  too  was  dimmed  for  the  night,  but 
across  the  lighted  doorways  figures  could  be  seen 
passing  and  repassing.  I  fancied  I  saw  a  figure 
come  out  of  a  French  window  on  the  second-story 
verandah  and  walk  to  and  fro.  It  was  discernible 
like  a  moving  white  spot. 

The  two  night  nurses,  hand  in  hand,  followed  us 
around.  “It  is  very  black  to-night,”  one  said,  “I 
hope  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  cross  the  compound 


2X4 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


to  call  the  doctor.  I  am  always  afraid  to  leave  the 
hospital  when  it  is  so  dark.  Also  I  hope  the  sick 
woman  will  not  die  to-night.  I  do  not  like  them  to 
die  on  dark  nights.” 

I  turned  to  the  bed  behind  me.  The  patient,  a 
young  girl  of  about  sixteen,  lay  dying  of  consumption. 
She  had  been  a  hopeless  case  from  the  start,  but 
nevertheless  I  hated  to  lose  her.  She  put  out  a  feeble 
hand  and  caught  a  fold  of  my  dress  to  attract  my 
attention. 

“I  fear,”  she  whispered.  I  bent  over  her.  ‘‘Do 
not  fear,”  I  said  in  answer.  “The  Lord  Jesus  forgets 
no  one.” 

“I  know,”  she  said,  “but  it  is  hard  to  remember 
in  the  darkness.” 

We  lit  a  candle  at  her  bedside.  Its  tiny  flicker 
of  light  only  accentuated  the  gloom,  but  it  pleased 
her.  I  told  the  nurses  to  stay  with  her  as  much  as 
possible.  Back  we  went,  down  through  the  peaceful 
wards,  across  the  court,  and  up  the  stairs  to  the 
nurses’  quarters.  We  walked  on  tiptoe,  we  didn’t 
speak.  I  know  the  thought  in  both  our  hearts  was 
one  and  the  same  —  to  reach  Pretty’s  room  un¬ 
observed.  But  it  was  quite  a  useless  and  futile 
hope.  At  the  head  of  the  stairs  we  met  Me  Li 
going  for  a  bath,  with  her  towel  hung  over  her 
arm.  “Sien  San  has  come,”  she  announced.  Along 
the  corridor  doors  flew  open.  In  a  moment  we 
were  surrounded  by  a  throng  of  nurses.  They  were 
so  slim  and  childish  in  their  striped  trousers  and 
jackets  of  blue  and  white  that  I  always  felt  like  a 
grandmother  among  them.  So  caught,  we  made 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


215 


the  round  of  their  rooms,  a  proceeding  which  we 
do  every  so  often.  At  Pretty’s  door  we  knocked. 

“She  is  not  in,’’  said  Me  Li. 

»  “Not  in,”  we  repeated  in  amazement.  “How  do 
you  know?” 

“I  can’t  get  in,”  said  Me  Li.  “I  have  been 
rooming  with  her  for  the  last  month,  but  tonight, 
when  I  came  off  duty,  I  could  not  open  the  door.  I 
tried  the  lock  ;  it  was  bolted.  I  looked  through  the 
keyhole,  and  the  room  was  empty.” 

“You  shouldn’t  spy  on  a  roommate,”  said  Miss 
Laurie  quickly. 

“  It  was  my  room  too,”  said  Me  Li. 

“That  was  before  supper,”  said  A-doo.  “If  she 
had  not  come  back  soon,  I  was  coming  over  to  tell 
Miss  Laurie.” 

“It  is  a  shameful  thing,”  said  one  of  the  new 
nurses.  “My  father  will  take  me  away  if  such 
affairs  go  on  here.” 

“Yes,”  said  Me  Li,  “we  think  you  should  not  let 
her  come  back  when  she  wants  to.” 

“Yes,  that  is  the  proper  custom,”  chorused  the 
girls. 

I  looked  at  Miss  Laurie  in  consternation. 

“If  she  comes  back,”  I  said,  “we  cannot  turn  her 
out.” 

“It  would  be  good  custom,”  insisted  the  girls. 

Their  attitude  of  prying  curiosity  exasperated  us, 
but  by  this  time  we  knew  that  this  very  attitude 
was  one  of  the  Chinese  safeguards  of  conduct.  In 
such  a  communal  life,  no  secrecy  could  succeed. 
We  were  gathered  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  we  on 


2l6 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


the  steps,  the  nurses  in  the  hall.  Through  the  open 
doors  of  their  rooms  we  saw  their  little  iron  bed¬ 
steads  and  the  chests  of  drawers  and  their  small 
trunks  covered  with  white  leather  and  clasped  with 
brass  hasps.  Directly  in  front  of  me  was  A-doo’s 
room.  On  the  dressing  table  stood  the  tiny  vanity 
box  of  Chinese  women  with  its  mirror  and  case  for 
hair  ornaments.  Next  was  the  closed,  locked  door 
of  Pretty’s  room.  On  the  gravel  of  the  driveway  we 
heard  the  wheels  of  a  ricksha  and  the  sharp  tones  of 
bargaining.  Evidently  the  man  was  easily  contented, 
for  the  wheels  turned  and  rumbled  back  to  the  gate¬ 
way  slowly.  Quick  steps  sounded  on  the  stairs 
behind  us,  and  Pretty  came  running  up.  She  was 
upon  Miss  Laurie  before  she  knew  it.  When  she 
would  have  drawn  back,  Miss  Laurie  flung  out  an 
arm  and  caught  the  girl  around  her  waist.  Pretty 
deserved  her  nickname.  She  wore  a  suit  of  white 
satin  with  a  thin  gauze  skirt,  which  in  the  accepted 
manner  of  Chinese  summer  skirts,  showed  her 
satin  trousers  plainly.  Her  black  hair  was  worn  in 
one  of  the  most  stylish  fashions  of  the  moment. 
Heavy  bangs,  cut  short  over  the  forehead  and  long 
over  the  temples,  hanging  down  the  side  of  her  face 
as  far  as  the  tips  of  her  ears,  ringed  her  glowing  face 
like  an  ebony  frame.  Two  heavy  plaits  were  wound 
around  her  head  in  a  borrowed  Gretchen  fashion. 

For  one  dramatic  instant  we  were  all  silent.  Then 
the  nurses  broke  out  in  vituperation. 

“I  wish  not  a  sound,”  said  Miss  Laurie  authorita¬ 
tively,  holding  up  a  silencing  hand.  "Where  have 
you  been,  E  Tsung?” 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


217 


“I  cannot  say,”  said  Pretty. 

“But  you  must  say  when  I  ask  you,”  said  Miss 
Laurie.  “You  know  the  rules  of  the  Training  School. 
No  girl  is  ever  permitted  to  go  out  alone  after  dark. 
It  is  bad  custom.  You  yourself  know'  it  is  not 
proper  custom  for  a  Chinese  young  girl.  Every 
one  will  say  words  that  are  not  good  to  hear.” 

Pretty  drew  herself  away  from  Miss  Laurie’s  arm. 

“It  is  all  true,  what  you  say,”  she  said.  “I 
know  it  is  not  proper  Chinese  custom.  I  know  what 
people  will  say,  Me  Li  especially.  But  what  have 
you  come  here  for,  but  to  teach  us  new  customs  that 
shall  be  proper  for  Chinese  women  as  well  as  foreign 
women?  You  tell  us  we  must  not  worship  our 
fathers.  There  was  no  custom  more  sacred  than 
that.  If  we  do  not  worship  our  fathers,  W'hat 
matters  it  what  class  of  strangeness  we  do  ?  Often 
have  I  seen  Miss  Laurie  and  Au-I-Sung  go  out  at 
night.  Sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with  a  man 
who  is  not  relation.  No  one  says  w'icked  words.  It 
is  proper  American  custom.  Why  shall  it  not  be 
proper  Chinese  custom  ?  I  have  done  nothing 
wrong.” 

How  could  we  explain  the  difference,  the  danger,  in 
the  face  of  the  scandalized  nurses,  to  the  bright, 
defiant  eyes  of  Pretty  ? 

“Go  to  your  room  and  stay  there  till  I  send  for 
you,”  said  Miss  Laurie.  “Your  meals  will  be 
brought  up  to  you.  When  you  came  here,  you  agreed 
to  obey  our  rules,  and  you  have  disobeyed.” 

Miss  Laurie  went  into  the  room  with  Pretty.  I 
shooed  the  rest  to  their  room  and  gave  them  some 


2l8 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


useless  words  of  advice  on  forgiveness  and  forbear¬ 
ance. 

“Her  grandmother  lived  in  a  mat-shed,”  mur¬ 
mured  Me  Li. 

I  was  baffled,  as  much  by  the  rest  of  the  nurses  as 
by  Pretty.  I  knew  how  Pretty  felt.  She  belonged 
to  the  new  generation.  The  new  wine  had  burst 
the  old  wine  skins  and  was  spilling  and  wasting  itself 
riotously.  Before  the  direct,  fearless  look  of  her 
eyes  I  had  no  answer.  I  felt  instinctively  as  I 
waited  on  the  front  steps  of  the  house  for  Miss 
Laurie,  that  the  ancient  method  of  confinement 
would  have  no  salutary  effect  on  her. 

A  little  glowworm  opened  and  shut  its  wings  on 
the  rosebush  at  my  side.  What  a  worm-miracle 
it  was,  radiant,  slight,  swaying  at  night  on  the  branch 
of  the  rose  bush.  It  enthralled  me  as  I  watched.  I 
fastened  my  eyes  on  the  spot  and  waited  for  the 
coming  glimpse  of  soft  light.  No  wonder  the  women 
of  the  south  sea  wore  them  as  jewels  in  their  hair, 
living  jewels ! 

A  din  of  beaten  drums  and  the  chant  of  priests 
came  down  the  street,  transforming  the  night  from 
a  silent  beauty  into  a  vivid,  pulsating  thing  of 
human  events.  It  was  a  funeral  procession.  I 
walked  out  to  the  gate  to  watch  it.  The  street  was 
alive  and  gay.  Children  pulled  toy  animals,  of 
painted  paper  lighted  within  by  a  candle,  along  the 
flags  of  the  market  place.  The  funeral  was  small 
and  meager.  A  few  boys  with  their  circular  parasols, 
more  like  lamp  shades  than  sunshades,  followed 
the  priests.  It  wasn’t  the  burial  proper,  only  the 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


219 


carrying  of  the  coffin  to  the  coffin  house.  At  the 
money  changer’s  across  the  way  the  men  leaned 
on  the  counter,  naked  from  the  waist  up,  and  smoked 
and  chatted.  The  eat-shop  next  door  was  filled  with 
coolies.  An  opium  den,  silent  and  shadowy,  with 
its  sign  hung  far  out  over  the  door,  was  faintly  lit. 
Farther  down  the  street  came  a  break  in  the  light,  a 
crack  of  darkness  which  marked  the  mouth  of  a  back 
alley.  A  large  automobile  waited  in  front  of  the 
curb  at  the  entrance  of  the  alley.  Another  glided 
up  noiselessly,  and  two  Chinese  in  handsome  silks 
got  out  quickly  and  hurried  into  the  darkness  of 
the  alley.  A  gambling  den  !  Along  the  curb  sat 
men  and  women  on  tiny  four-legged  stools  enjoying 
the  coolness  of  the  evening  air.  Worlds  upon 
worlds  crowded  upon  me,  one  world  of  the  lit,  gay 
street,  another  of  the  quiet  dim  compound  but  a  few 
yards  away,  and  yet  another  of  the  small  neat  room 
with  its  iron  bedstead  and  chest  of  drawers  and 
dressing  case  where  Miss  Laurie  talked  with  Pretty, 
and  yet  another  of  my  own  consciousness  and  its 
bitter  wants  and  needs. 

“What  did  you  accomplish?”  I  asked  Miss 
Laurie,  when  she  came. 

“Nothing,”  she  said.  “She  wouldn’t  tell  me 
anything  about  where  she  had  been  or  what  she 
had  been  doing.  She  said  a  thousand  times  she 
had  done  nothing  wrong  and  asked  me  to  trust  her. 
I  said  I  did  trust  her,  but  that  she  must  obey  the 
rules  of  the  hospital.  She  said  that  wasn’t  trusting 
her.  We  went  over  and  over  the  same  ground. 
Finally  I  locked  her  in,  and  said  she  was  to  stay  in 


220 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


her  room  till  I  came  back  from  Wusih.  That  will 
be  three  days.  I  wish  I  were  not  going.  However, 
it  can’t  be  helped.  If  she  is  repentant,  she  will  have 
to  make  a  public  apology  and  then  we’ll  forgive  her. 
If  she  isn’t  she  will  have  to  be  sent  back  to  Mrs. 
Maitland.  We  can’t  have  the  responsibility  of 
looking  after  her  if  she  won’t  obey.” 

Miss  Laurie  left  by  the  early  morning  train. 
The  nurses  volunteered  the  information  that  Pretty 
had  refused  to  let  the  amah  in.  She  had  not  taken 
her  breakfast.  I  was  not  surprised  at  that.  Dinner 
at  noon  she  also  refused.  She  maintained  a  sullen 
silence.  I  could  not  stand  it ;  I  was  afraid  she  would 
do  something  desperate.  I  chose  a  moment  when 
all  the  nurses  were  at  their  busiest  in  clinic,  and  went 
upstairs  on  my  tiptoes.  I  drew  the  key  stealthily 
from  my  pocket  and  opened  the  door.  I  stepped 
inside  quickly  and  closed  it  after  me.  The  room 
was  empty.  My  heart  suddenly  began  to  beat 
suffocatingly.  I  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  behind 
me  as  I  wished  to  be  undisturbed,  and  went  over 
to  the  bed  in  the  corner.  I  could  not  tell  whether  it 
had  been  slept  in  or  not,  for  its  smooth  matting 
betrayed  no  creases.  I  opened  the  drawers.  They 
were  full  of  clothes.  A  little  dressing  case  open 
stood  on  the  top  of  the  bureau.  A  pigskin  box  was 
unlocked.  I  could  not  be  sure,  but,  to  my  eyes,  the 
room  looked  as  if  it  had  just  been  left  for  a  moment, 
as  if  its  occupant  meant  to  return  shortly.  A  picture 
of  Mrs.  Maitland  and  another  of  the  mission  school 
hung  on  the  wall.  One  of  Pretty  herself,  hold¬ 
ing  tightly  to  the  ear  of  a  bronze  griffon,  stood 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


221 


unframcd  on  the  dresser.  I  went  to  the  window. 
The  roof  of  the  veranda  sloped  steeply  towards  the 
ground.  The  drop  from  it  would  be  not  more  than 
ten  feet.  On  a  nail  at  the  edge  of  the  roof  I  caught 
sight  of  a  piece  of  black  gauze.  At  least  she  had  not 
taken  opium !  Would  she  come  back,  or  had  she 
gone  forever?  And  where? 

I  listened  along  the  corridor,  but  no  one  was 
stirring,  so  I  stuffed  the  keyhole  with  a  bit  of  cotton 
to  keep  the  empty  room  from  the  prying  eyes  of  Me 
Li,  and  escaped  unobserved.  I  rushed  through 
clinic  and  set  out  for  Mrs.  Maitland’s.  I  did  not 
like  to  telephone  the  news.  I  wanted  to  save  Pretty, 
and  somehow  I  felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Maitland  would 
know  a  way.  I  almost  hoped  I  might  find  Pretty 
there,  for  Mrs.  Maitland  was  the  kind  of  woman  to 
whom  a  girl  could  go  with  any  trouble.  To  my  eager 
mind,  that  warm  afternoon,  man-power  seemed  a 
snail-like  way  of  covering  distance.  The  naked 
waist  of  my  runnerglistened  with  sweat.  He  shook 
his  head  violently  every  so  often,  and  a  spray  of 
moisture  flew  into  the  air.  On  the  benches  along 
the  houses,  narrow  as  a  hand’s-breadth,  men  lay 
full  length  asleep.  Everywhere  was  the  incessant 
whir  of  fans,  round  and  oval  and  conical,  fanning 
faces  and  backs  and  stomachs.  On  an  empty  lot  a 
circle  of  horses  were  exercising.  At  the  head  of 
each  animal  walked  its  keeper.  In  the  center  of  the 
slowly,  ever-revolving  circle,  stood  a  man  with  a  bird 
cage,  containing  a  black  minne  bird  with  a  yellow 
beak,  singing.  The  whirling  horses  and  the  whirl¬ 
ing  men  were  utterly  silent,  as  if  mesmerized  by 


222 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


the  thin  piping  of  the  captive  bird.  The  gold  signs 
on  their  ebony  backgrounds  waved  languidly  before 
the  shops  on  Nanking  Road.  Over  the  high  counters 
in  the  open  shops  appeared  the  bronze  bodies  of 
the  jacketless  clerks.  Silent,  smoking  water  pipes, 
they  leaned  on  the  counter,  gazing  inscrutably  into 
the  future.  Before  the  newest  jeweler  shop,  the 
manikins  of  plaster  in  embroidered  robes  revolved 
tirelessly  over  the  doorway.  We  were  the  only  ob¬ 
jects  in  sight  that  moved  faster  than  a  snail’s  pace, 
and  that  was  only  out  of  deference  to  the  wishes  of 
the  foreign  devil  in  the  ricksha.  It  is  well  known 
that  when  a  foreign  devil  wishes  to  go  anywhere, 
he  wishes  to  be  there  at  once.  Panting  and  drip¬ 
ping,  my  puller  ran  on.  On  the  bund  a  breath  of 
freshness  met  us.  Across  the  river,  Phootung  was 
half  hidden  in  foliage.  The  feeble  air  but  flapped 
in  the  sails  of  the  junks.  Already  the  benches 
along  the  water  front  were  filled  with  foreign  babies 
and  their  amahs.  My  eyes  slipped  idly  over  them. 
In  the  garden  the  band  was  playing. 

“  Stop  !  Stop  !  ”  I  cried,  leaping  out  before  the 
shafts  touched  the  ground.  I  darted  across  the  street 
and' caught  hold  of  Pretty,  who  was  deep  in  conversa¬ 
tion  with  a  handsome  youth.  I  had  neither  words  nor 
breath  left  to  speak,  but  I  held  her  tightly.  Night 
had  not  yet  come,  she  was  safe.  “Oh!  E  Tsung,” 
I  cried  at  last,  “why  did  you  run  away?” 

“  I  had  to,”  she  said.  “You  would  not  let  me  meet 
him.  I  must  see  him.” 

I  looked  at  the  man.  He  wore  a  white  flannel  suit 
of  foreign  cut  and  looked  very  dapper  and  handsome. 


THE  BIRD  FANCIERS 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


223 


“Who  is  he!”  I  asked. 

“He  is  my  future  husband,”  Pretty  answered. 

The  answer  took  my  breath  away.  But  one 
solution  appeared  to  my  dazed  faculties.  We 
would  go  to  Mrs.  Maitland.  She  would  know 
what  to  do. 

“Call  a  ricksha,”  I  said  to  the  man,  “and  follow 
us.  I  will  take  E  Tsung  with  me.” 

“Where  are  you  taking  me?”  asked  Pretty. 

“To  Mrs.  Maitland,”  I  answered. 

They  made  no  objection.  I  took  Pretty  on  my 
lap  as  an  amah  takes  her  mistress.  The  runner 
demurred,  but  I  promised  him  double  the  fare. 
Holding  her  on  my  knees  in  the  intimate  way  one 
holds  a  little  child,  I  could  feel  no  anger  at  her.  In 
fact,  I  had  not  been  as  much  angry  as  worried  all 
along.  I  wanted  to  save  her.  There  was  something 
so  utterly  lovable  about  her,  one  could  not  help 
liking  her.  After  we  had  ridden  in  silence  a  block 
or  so,  Pretty’s  hand  stole  into  mine. 

“You  will  understand,  Au-I-Sung,”  she  said. 
“You  also  love  the  foreign  man.  Days  when  he 
comes  not  to  see  you,  your  heart  is  sad  and  heavy. 
I  know,  for  I  have  watched  the  look  in  your  eyes. 
At  first  I  did  not  know  what  made  you  so  different, 
some  days  so  merry,  as  if  the  sunshine  lived  in  your 
eyes,  and  some  days  so  sad,  as  if  your  heart  were 
crying.  But  lately  I  have  understood.  I  could 
not  pass  a  day  without  seeing  him.  I  had  to  run 
away.  You  are  not  angry,  are  you?” 

“No,  E  Tsung,”  I  said,  “I  am  not  angry.  If  you 
wished  to  be  married,  why  did  you  not  tell  us,  so 


224 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


that  we  could  have  arranged  it  for  you  in  an  honor¬ 
able  manner.” 

“No,”  she  said,  “I  did  not  want  it  arranged.  I 
wanted  to  do  it  myself.” 

“Who  is  this  man?”  I  asked.  “What  do  you 
know  about  him?  Where  did  you  meet  him?” 

“He  is  Li-I-Sung.  I  met  him  at  the  house  of  a 
school  friend  of  mine,  that  first  day  I  ran  away  from 
A-doo  and  the  amah.  I  had  in  my  heart  no  wicked¬ 
ness  that  day,  but  to  run  away  and  see  my  school 
friend.  She  is  married  and  has  a  baby.  I  wanted 
to  see  the  baby.  Her  husband  was  there,  also 
Li-I-Sung.  They  also  were  schoolmates.  Li-I- 
Sung  has  studied  the  foreign  medicine  already 
three  years.  When  I  saw  him  I  wanted  to  marry 
him  at  once,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  would  like  it.  I 
think  he  wanted  to  marry  me  at  once  too.  He 
works  at  the  Paulun  Hospital.  But  we  couldn’t 
marry  at  once.  We  planned  a  signal  of  hand  wavings 
and  letters,  and  we  used  to  meet  every  afternoon  at 
the  corner.  The  day  I  was  out  at  night,  I  had  not 
been  able  to  go  to  meet  him  in  the  afternoon,  and  so 
I  had  to  go  after  supper.” 

Mrs.  Maitland  looked  very  serious  at  the  tale. 
“You  cannot  marry  Mr.  Li  now,  at  once,”  she  said. 
“It  is  not  seemly.  You  will  have  to  return  to  the 
mat-shed  of  your  aunt  and  eat  the  rice  and  water  of 
bitterness.  Do  you  not  know  that  Mr.  Li  must  first 
finish  his  course?  If  he  marries  he  will  have  to 
leave.” 

“That  is  a  foolish  and  unjust  custom,”  said 
Pretty,  “but  it  can’t  be  helped.  He  will  have  to 


WHERE  THERE’S  A  WILL 


225 


leave.  As  for  sending  me  back  to  the  mat-shed  of 
my  aunt,  that  also  is  useless.  I  would  run  away 
before  your  wheelbarrow  were  out  of  sight.” 

“What,  then,  will  you  do?” 

“I  will  marry  Mr.  Li.” 

Mrs.  Maitland  turned  to  Mr.  Li.  He  was 
evidently  in  love  with  Pretty  but  would  have  been 
open  to  reason.  He  regretted  the  necessity  of  not 
finishing  his  course  but  would  rather  do  that  than 
not  get  Pretty.  Again  Mrs.  Maitland  tried  to 
make  Pretty  see  reason,  to  persuade  her  to  wait  six 
months  till  Mr.  Li  finished  his  course.  “  I  cannot 
wait,”  she  said.  “You  must  understand  how  I 
feel.  If  he  does  not  marry  me  now,  I  will  kill 
myself.” 

She  had  her  way.  Then  and  there,  they  were 
married  in  the  parlor  of  the  mission  house,  Mrs. 
Maitland  and  I  being  the  witnesses.  That  evening 
we  saw  them  off  on  the  train  for  Wusih,  for  Mr.  Li 
said  he  knew  enough  medicine  to  make  a  living 
there.  My  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  I  watched 
them  go,  young,  alone,  eloping  like  any  western 
couple  caught  in  the  toils  of  a  great  love. 


XVIII 


THE  SEEKING  HAND 

-DOO  was  convalescing  from  typhoid.  She 
had  had  a  very  mild  case  and  could  hardly 


«*-  -A-  be  persuaded  to  stay  in  bed  a  full  three 
weeks.  Tomorrow  she  was  to  be  allowed  up  for  the 
first  time.  It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  and  I  was 
preaching  in  the  chapel.  The  room  was  full  of 


patients  and  a  host  of  their  friends.  I  was  speaking 


on  the  parable  of  the  Good  Shepherd.  The  con¬ 
gregation  leaned  forward,  hanging  over  the  backs  of 
the  benches  in  front  in  their  eagerness  to  hear  and 
understand.  The  story,  in  the  telling  simplicity  of 
Chinese  phrases,  held  a  startling  power.  I  was 
thrilled  by  it  myself,  as  if  hearing  it  for  the  first  time, 
and  to  the  audience  it  was  as  magic  as  a  fairy  tale, 
this  story  of  a  searching  and  finding  God.  Pictures 
of  their  idols  rose  to  my  mind,  the  pair  of  kitchen 
gods  sitting  side  by  side  on  a  ledge  in  the  cement 
over  the  stove,  ready  to  curse  or  bless,  according  to 
the  amount  and  tastiness  of  the  food  offerings  placed 
before  them  ;  the  wooden  painted  idols  in  the  shrines 
in  the  native  city  covered  with  the  dirt  of  ages  who, 
as  the  matron  scornfully  said,  “can’t  even  lift  their 
hands  to  wash  their  faces”;  and  the  great  bronze 
Buddhas  sitting  cross-legged  on  their  dais,  looking 


THE  SEEKING  HAND 


227 


out  over  the  centuries  with  inscrutable  calm.  I  saw 
them  worshiping  their  idols,  knocking  their  fore¬ 
heads  on  the  cold  stones  at  the  feet  of  the  images, 
bound  and  tortured  by  fear  and  yearning.  No 
wonder  they  listened  with  bated  breath  to  the  story 
of  a  God  who  went  after  the  lost  to  seek  and  to  find. 
I  heard  low  murmurs  run  through  the  crowd, 
“Wonderful!”  “It  is  not  to  be  believed!”  “The 
words  are  good  to  hear !”  “What  is  the  meaning  ?” 
Wonder,  I  think,  was  the  principal  expression  on 
their  faces,  wonder  and  a  shy  delight,  much  as  you 
or  I  would  feel  if  we  were  suddenly  told  we  had  wings 
and  could  fly  up  into  the  sky  at  will.  Then  we  sang 
the  old  gospel  hymn,  “Jesus  loves  me.”  The 
Chinese  words  are  simple,  and  the  tune  went  with  a 
swing.  Enough  of  the  nurses  and  patients  who 
knew  the  hymn  were  there  to  make  it  go. 

We  were  at  the  third  verse  when  Little  Wang, 
who  was  on  duty  in  the  wards,  slipped  in  and 
touched  my  arm. 

“  Come  quickly,”  she  said,  “  a  man  is  killing  A-doo.” 

I  left  them  singing  the  hymn  and  ran  along 
through  the  half  empty  ward  with  Little  Wang. 
Sounds  rose  up  to  meet  us  —  the  loud  angry  tones 
of  a  man’s  voice  and  a  sobbing,  pleading  woman’s 
voice.  I  burst  open  the  door  of  A-doo’s  room.  A 
tall  rough  man  was  leaning  over  her  bed,  shaking 
her  violently  by  the  shoulders,  speaking  all  the  time. 
He  repeated  his  words  over  and  over  again.  “You 
must  come.  You  must  do  as  I  tell  you.  Are  you 
not  mine  !  Get  up  and  come.” 

“I  can’t.  I  have  been  sick,”  A-doo  cried. 


228 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


I  flew  at  the  man  and  jerked  him  away  by  the  back 
of  his  coat. 

“Go,”  I  said,  pointing  at  the  door.  “Go  quickly 
before  I  have  you  arrested.  And  if  I  ever  see  you 
here  again,  I  will  send  for  the  police.  Do  you  hear 
me?  Go!” 

If  I  had  been  less  angry  or  had  hesitated,  I  might 
not  have  gotten  rid  of  him  so  easily,  though  in 
Shanghai  lower-class  Chinese  are  accustomed  to 
obeying  the  foreigner.  The  man  hung  a  moment  in 
the  doorway,  then  turned  and  hurried  down  the 
stairs.  I  ran  over  to  the  window  and  poked  my 
head  out,  to  be  sure  that  he  had  left  the  compound. 
I  saw  him  hesitate  at  the  gate,  but  I  shook  my  fist 
at  him,  and  he  disappeared.  Then  I  turned  to 
A-doo,  who  was  crying  desperately.  The  entire  con¬ 
gregation  had  adjourned  and  followed  me  through 
the  ward  to  A-doo’s  room  and  now  was  crowding 
around  A-doo’s  bed.  I  took  the  nearest  gently  by 
the  shoulders  and  pushed  them  towards  the  door. 
A  babel  of  questions  arose.  Feeling  how  humiliat¬ 
ing  this  swarm  of  curious  onlookers  must  be  to  A-doo, 
I  urged  them  vigorously  towards  the  door. 

Suddenly  A-doo  sat  up  in  bed  and  flung  out  her 
hands  dramatically  towards  us.  Her  pale  face,  her 
red  and  swollen  eyes,  her  disheveled  hair,  lent  her 
figure  the  strange,  arresting  menace  of  despair.  The 
crowd,  which  had  been  yielding  to  my  pressure  and 
ebbing  through  the  door,  now  surged  back  and  filled 
the  room.  The  hospital  amahs,  the  coolies,  the 
patients  and  their  visitors,  all  were  huddled  in  a 
close-breathing  group  in  the  small  room.  As  if 


THE  SEEKING  HAND 


229 


caught  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  the  crowd,  pressing 
forward  to  A-doo’s  bed,  had  carried  me  ahead.  I 
stood  close  beside  her 

“Let  them  go,  A-doo,”  I  said. 

“In  a  little  moment,”  she  said.  “They  must 
first  hear  my  woe.  Listen,  all  ye  who  pass  by,  and 
hear  my  woe  and  see  the  bitterness  which  I  have 
eaten.  That  man  who  was  killing  me  is  my  hus¬ 
band.  Ten  years  have  I  supported  him  by  the  work 
of  my  hands,  him  and  my  old  mother.  Too  much 
is  it  for  a  woman.  I  work  and  am  paid,  then  in  the 
night  comes  my  husband  and  threatens  to  kill  me 
or  to  sell  me,  unless  I  give  him  my  money.  Some¬ 
times  he  finds  it  all,  and  sometimes  he  only  finds  a 
part,  for  I  hide  it  in  many  different  places.  Then 
he  takes  it  and  drinks  and  gambles.  When  he  wants 
more  he  sets  my  mother-in-law  to  upbraid  me.  She 
fills  me  with  fear,  because  she  lives  close  beside  my 
mother,  in  the  village  street,  and  when  I  do  not  give 
him  enough  money,  she  torments  my  mother.  She 
sits  at  the  gate  of  her  courtyard  and  reviles  the  name 
of  my  mother  to  all  the  passers-by.  Then,  at  last, 
even  my  mother  comes  to  me  to  beg  me  to  give  up 
more  money.  I  have  none  left.  For  two  years  I  had 
peace.  I  was  like  a  little  girl,  free  and  unafraid  on 
the  streets,  for  my  husband  was  in  prison.  He  stole 
a  pair  of  blankets  from  a  foreign  woman,  and  the 
foreign  man  put  him  in  prison.  But  what  is  a  pair 
of  blankets  to  what  he  has  stolen  from  me !  All  my 
money  which  I  was  saving  for  the  old  age  of  my 
mother,  who  has  no  son,  all  my  peace  and  happiness. 
The  taste  of  bitterness,  only  bitterness,  is  in  my 


230 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


mouth  for  many  days.  And  now  I  will  pray  the 
foreign  doctor  to  have  my  husband  put  in  prison 
again  ;  only  thus  shall  I  have  peace  and  security.” 

During  this  recital,  the  audience  listened  spell¬ 
bound.  A-doo  fell  back  exhausted.  “Miserable 
one,”  murmured  the  crowd.  A  few  old  women 
hovered  around  the  bed  with  advice,  but  the  rest  of 
the  audience  melted  away.  Baffled  by  the  utter 
foreignness  of  A-doo’s  proceeding,  I  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  not  knowing  what  to  say.  A-doo  began 
to  cry  again,  so  I  sent  little  Wang  for  a  quieting  dose 
and  led  the  last  lingering  gossips  from  the  room. 
“Why  did  you  excite  yourself  so,  A-doo?”  I  asked. 

“I  had  to,”  she  answered.  “All  those  people 
would  have  gone  away  wondering  what  was  the 
matter.  They  would  have  said  terrible  things  about 
me,  about  the  hospital,  about  the  foreign  doctors. 
I  had  to  tell  them.  Besides,  it  is  good  Chinese 
custom.  In  the  villages,  if  a  woman  has  a  bitter¬ 
ness  past  bearing  alone,  she  goes  to  the  scolding 
place  and  cries  out  her  trouble  to  all  the  world  that 
passes  by.  Then,  after  that,  if  her  trouble  is  just, 
the  village  folk  all  sympathize  with  her  and  do  not 
slander  her.  Truly  it  is  a  good  custom.  Already 
my  heart  feels  lighter.  Do  not  worry.  The 
wretched  man,  my  husband,  is  now  thoroughly 
scared  by  the  fierceness  of  the  foreign  woman.  He 
will  not  come  back  for  a  long  time.  Also  because 
he  thinks  he  has  all  my  money,  but  he  has  not.  See.” 

A-doo  opened  the  sliding  cover  of  her  dressing 
box  which  stood  on  the  little  table  by  the  bedside. 
She  slipped  back  one  shelf  after  the  other  and  in  the 


THE  SEEKING  HAND 


231 


undermost,  hidden  under  her  hair  ornaments,  lay  a 
roll  of  bills.  She  took  them  out  and  counted  them 
over  carefully.  “Fifty,”  she  said.  “That  will  buy 
my  mother  rice  till  she  dies.  I  have  been  saving  it 
for  many  years.” 

The  next  day  A-doo  was  worse.  Her  relapse  was 
a  much  more  serious  affair  than  the  original  attack, 
and  she  rallied  very  slowly.  One  day  I  found  a 
country  woman  sitting  at  her  bedside  when  I  went  in 
in  the  morning.  She  was  a  little,  shriveled  woman 
with  wisps  of  gray  hair  pulled  back  from  her  face. 
Her  brown  eyes  were  bright,  and  her  shrunken 
cheeks  were  ruddy  with  the  marvelous  health  of 
the  aged  country  folk.  She  was  neatly  dressed  in 
faded  blue  cotton. 

“My  mother-in-law,”  said  A-doo. 

“I  have  come  to  take  my  dear  daughter  home,” 
said  the  mother-in-law.  “When  a  Chinese  woman 
gets  sick,  then  it  is  time  for  her  to  go  home  and  not 
to  eat  the  rice  of  strangers.  We  will  start  this  after¬ 
noon.” 

The  woman’s  bright,  beady  eyes  held  me  like  a 
snake’s  eyes.  The  simple  assurance  of  her  state¬ 
ment  aroused  my  antagonism.  I  stole  a  swift  glance 
at  A-doo.  She  was  looking  at  me  with  a  painful 
questioning.  She  did  not  want  to  go.  Assured  of 
that,  I  knew  what  course  to  take.  I  told  the  old 
hag  firmly  that  I  was  the  doctor  of  the  house  and 
that  everybody  had  to  obey  my  orders.  I  told  her 
that  A-doo  was  not  well  enough  to  go,  and  that  I 
would  not  permit  her  to  go.  This  made  no  im¬ 
pression  on  the  old  woman. 


232 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“She  is  the  wife  of  my  son,”  she  repeated.  “He 
wishes  her  at  home.  She  will  have  to  come.  If  she 
stays  here  and  dies,  the  burden  will  be  on  your  body. 
A  foreign  woman  cannot  know  what  a  Chinese 
woman  needs  when  she  is  sick.  She  must  come 
home.  I  have  come  to  take  her.  I  rose  up  very 
early  this  morning  before  yet  the  sun  had  climbed 
the  hill  of  heaven  and  came  down  the  river  in  a  boat. 
This  afternoon  we  will  go  back  when  the  shadows 
begin  to  grow  longer.” 

A-doo’s  face  was  flushed.  A  glittering,  shining 
luster  appeared  in  her  eyes.  I  knew  she  was  grow¬ 
ing  excited,  and  I  feared  a  return  of  her  temperature, 
so  I  took  the  obstinate  old  creature  by  the  elbow  and 
led  her  from  A-doo’s  room.  Nor  did  I  allow  her  to 
go  back.  I  set  a  guard  on  the  room,  one  nurse 
inside  and  one  nurse  outside,  and  we  circumvented 
the  mother-in-law.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been 
better  if  I  had  let  A-doo  go  at  once.  I  was  no 
match  for  the  woman. 

“You  do  not  want  to  go,  A-doo?”  I  asked. 

“No,  no,”  A-doo  said,  catching  hold  of  my  hand. 
“Do  not  let  her  get  me.  She  wants  my  money. 
She  hates  me.  She  will  torture  me.  I  fear  her  more 
than  I  fear  my  husband.  Keep  me.  Save  me.” 

“Don’t  worry,”  I  said,  foolish  in  my  strength. 
“They  shall  not  hurt  you.  I  will  not  let  you  go,  I 
will  keep  you.  They  cannot  hurt  you.” 

A-doo  laid  ray  hand  against  her  forehead.  “You 
are  as  my  father  and  mother  to  me,”  she  said. 

The  little  old  witchlike  woman  hung  around  the 
compound  all  day,  but  by  evening  she  was  gone. 


THE  SEEKING  HAND 


233 


I  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  for  I  felt  we  were  out  of  the 
woods.  I  had  disposed  of  both  the  husband  and 
the  mother-in-law.  Beware !  The  foreigner  who 
thinks  he  has  bested  a  Chinese  mother-in-law ! 
A  week  went  by  uneventfully,  A-doo  improved 
daily  so  that  I  let  her  get  up  and  around.  She  ate 
her  rice  with  relish  and  asked  for  a  piece  of  foreign 
bread.  She  too  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her 
trouble  and  to  be  once  more  the  serene  and  smiling 
A-doo  who  had  stood  by  me  so  manfully  in  the  days 
of  my  greenness.  I  wondered  at  her  calmness.  I 
had  not  known  her  story  in  any  detail,  but  I  remem¬ 
bered  Doctor  Donnellon  saying  that  A-doo  was  not 
a  widow,  as  I  had  supposed,  but  a  married  woman, 
and  that  her  husband  was  a  rascal.  The  knowledge 
had  gone  out  of  my  mind  at  once.  Now,  whenever 
I  saw  her,  I  thought  of  it  and  of  the  sudden  revela¬ 
tion  I  had  had  of  the  hidden  bitterness  of  her  life. 
That  woman,  with  the  distorted  face  and  accusing 
words,  pouring  forth  her  woes  in  a  torrent  to  the 
unknown  listeners,  seemed  to  me  a  stranger  from  the 
capable,  smiling  A-doo  of  the  operating  room.  I 
wondered  had  she  two  personalities?  Was  this  one 
of  the  incomprehensible  cases  of  dissociation  of  the 
ego?  Had  she  an  ancient  Chinese  individuality 
and  a  superimposed  foreign- trained  personality? 
I  only  knew  that  to  me,  the  two  A-doos  were 
as  distinct  as  two  people.  I  was  yet  to  meet 
a  third. 

One  morning  after  chapel  Little  Wang  said  to  me, 
“  A-doo’s  mother  has  come.  She  wants  her  to  come 
home.” 


234 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


“Her  own  mother?”  I  asked.  “Not  her  mother- 
in-law?” 

“Yes,  her  own  mother,”  Little  Wang  answered. 

I  found  her  sitting  at  the  bedside  of  A-doo.  She 
was  utterly  different  from  the  mother-in-law.  She 
was  a  large,  placid  woman  with  the  kindly,  benevo¬ 
lent  eyes  and  smile  that  one  often  sees  in  old  Chinese 
people.  She  wore  hoops  of  blue  enamel  in  her  ears, 
and  her  hair  ornaments  were  of  the  same.  Her 
scanty  black  hair  was  brushed  neatly  and  twisted  in 
a  tight  small  roll  at  the  back  of  her  head.  Yet  her 
face  had  not  the  force  of  the  face  of  the  mother-in- 
law.  In  her  I  felt  no  sinister,  malignant  power. 

“Do  you  want  to  go  home?”  I  asked  A-doo. 
“You  are  well  enough  to  go  now  if  you  want  to.  A 
change  and  vacation  would  be  good  for  you.  But  I 
will  not  let  you  go,  if  you  do  not  want  to.  You 
must  tell  me  truly.  Do  you  want  to  go  of  your  own 
free  will  ?” 

“Yes,”  said  A-doo.  “My  mother  wants  me, 
therefore  I  must  go.” 

“Not  unless  you  yourself  want  to  go,”  I  insisted. 

“  I  myself  wish  to  go,”  said  A-doo. 

Yet  somehow  her  words  did  not  satisfy  me.  She 
repeated  them  too  mechanically,  as  if  they  were 
a  response  that  had  been  learned  generations 
ago,  as  if  they  had  neither  root  nor  branch  in  her 
own  consciousness.  Nor  yet  did  she  rebel.  Her 
mother  had  come  for  her,  therefore  she  must  go. 
She  was  strangely  passive.  They  were  to  leave  in 
the  afternoon  at  the  same  time  that  the  witchlike 
mother-in-law  had  set,  when  the  shadows  grew  long. 


THE  SEEKING  HAND 


235 


All  day  the  nurses  were  in  a  whirl,  running  about 
getting  things  for  A-doo,  helping  her  pack  up  her 
small  square  pigskin  box,  thrusting  presents  on  her, 
cooking  her  a  specially  savory  meal  at  noon.  San 
Me,  her  best  friend,  sat  in  her  room  and  talked. 
Just  before  parting  time,  San  Me  came  to  me. 

“All  is  not  well,”  she  said.  “Since  you  sent  away 
the  son  and  the  mother-in-law,  for  one  long  month, 
the  mother-in-law  has  sat  in  the  door  of  her  house, 
which  is  next  the  house  of  A-doo’s  mother,  and  has 
reviled  her  and  A-doo.  All  the  village  has  heard  the 
words.  She  has  said  that  A-doo  is  unfilial.  She 
has  said  that  A-doo  has  sold  herself  in  the  big  city. 
She  has  said  that,  while  her  husband  was  in  prison, 
A-doo  has  had  a  child.  All  the  village  has  stopped 
to  listen,  the  men  and  the  women  and  the  children. 
They  gossip  about  it  around  their  gateways  in  the 
cool  of  the  evening.  Many  do  not  believe  it,  but 
some  do.  The  mother-in-law  of  A-doo  is  a  wicked 
woman,  and  the  village  fears  her.  When  she  was 
young  she  cast  fortunes.  When  she  does  not  sit  in 
her  gateway  and  talk  to  all  the  passers-by,  she  takes 
out  her  magic  scrolls  and  reads  them  and  laughs  and 
mutters  to  herself.  It  is  more  than  the  mother  can 
bear  any  longer.  So  she  has  come  for  A-doo,  to 
take  her  home  to  confound  the  old  witch.” 

“I  will  keep  them  both  here,”  I  said.  “I  will  not 
let  A-doo  go  back  to  be  tormented.” 

“It  must  be,”  said  San  Me.  “She  cannot  stay. 
She  would  lose  face.” 

So  I  too  acquiesced.  I  had  raged  and  interfered 
and  endeavored  to  prevent  the  fulfilment  of  a 


236 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


Chinese  destiny,  and  I  was  baffled.  It  was  useless. 
The  old  witch  had  her  way.  A-doo  was  as  if  a  spell 
had  been  put  upon  her.  She  neither  spoke  nor 
wailed  nor  objected.  I  went  to  her  once  again,  but 
she  shook  her  head.  “It  must  be,”  she  said.  “I 
must  go.  It  is  my  fate.” 

The  whole  hospital  turned  out  to  say  good-by. 
But  it  was  not  a  hilarious  leave-taking.  Every  one 
was  oppressed  with  the  shadow  of  some  disaster. 
San  Me  went  weeping  to  her  room. 

“We  will  never  see  her  again,”  she  said. 

“Nonsense,”  I  replied,  but  I  felt  a  sinking  of  my 
heart. 

Weeks  went  by,  and  no  sign  came  from  A-doo. 
She  had  promised  to  write  to  San  Me,  but  no  letter 
came.  At  last  San  Me  asked  if  she  might  not  take 
two  days  off  and  go  up  the  creek  to  see  A-doo, 
spend  one  night  with  her,  and  come  back  the  next 
day.  San  Me  was  a  widow  and  so  could  be  allowed 
more  liberty  than  a  young  girl ;  moreover  she  was 
an  older  woman.  I  let  her  go  gladly,  for  I  had  grown 
worried  at  the  utter  disappearance  of  A-doo.  She 
had  vanished  as  completely  as  if  some  monster  had 
opened  his  jaws  and  swallowed  her  up.  It  had 
been  a  terrible  month  for  me.  What  with  my  long¬ 
ing  for  Edward  and  my  uncertainty  as  to  his  where¬ 
abouts,  a  thousand  doubts  of  his  love  had  crept  into 
my  heart  to  torment  my  days  and  nights.  I  knew 
quite  well  what  I  wanted ;  I  wanted  Edward  back 
again.  Then  I  was  worried  about  A-doo.  I 
reproached  myself  with  having  let  her  go  too  easily. 
So  when  San  Me  suggested  that  she  go  to  see  her  I 


THE  SEEKING  HAND 


237 


was  glad.  I  found  the  whole  hospital  had  been 
worrying  about  her.  The  moment  my  permission 
was  given  the  nurses  broke  into  a  thousand  conjec¬ 
tures.  I  found  their  thoughts  had  been  as  busy  with 
A-doo  as  had  mine. 

The  two  days  that  San  Me  was  gone  dragged 
along  interminably.  A  deadly  apprehension  of  bad 
news  filled  me,  and  the  first  sight  of  San  Me  con¬ 
firmed  it.  She  stumbled  into  my  room,  blinded 
with  tears. 

“What  is  it?  ”  I  asked.  “  Did  you  find  her?  Is 
she  worse?” 

“Yes,  I  found  her,”  San  Me  answered.  “No, 
she  is  not  worse.” 

“Is  she  unhappy?”  I  asked. 

“No,”  San  Me  answered.  “She  is  not  unhappy. 
She  does  not  feel  anything.  Her  heart  has  died. 
Her  body  is  quite  well.  She  is  fat  and  her  cheeks 
are  pink,  but  her  heart  has  died.  She  just  sits  in  a 
chair  and  looks  far  away  at  the  clouds,  and  smiles 
to  herself.  It  is  the  mother-in-law.  She  has  be¬ 
witched  A-doo.  She  put  a  spell  on  her.  By  and  by 
A-doo  will  wither  away  and  die.  She  did  not  know 
me  when  I  got  there.  The  boat  was  very  slow.  I 
did  not  get  there  till  it  was  already  twilight.  The 
old  mother  and  A-doo  were  sitting  on  little  stools  in 
front  of  the  door.  Just  next  door  sat  the  mother-in- 
law.  I  heard  her  voice  a  long  way  off.  She  was 
reviling  A-doo.  She  called  her  terrible  names. 
A-doo  sat  there,  looking  at  the  pink  clouds  and 
smiling  to  herself,  as  if  she  did  not  hear  the  words  of 
the  mother-in-law.  Perhaps  she  did  not  hear  them, 


238 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


I  do  not  know.  But  the  mother  heard  them.  She 
sat  embroidering  a  slipper,  and  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks.  She  has  grown  old  and  thin.  Her  skin 
hangs  on  her  cheek  bones  as  if  it  were  a  loose  bag. 
She  touched  A-doo  on  the  arm,  and  they  went  in. 
The  mother-in-law,  as  if  she  had  somehow  triumphed 
in  making  them  go  in  first,  sat  on  reviling  them 
aloud.  A  group  of  little  boys  stood  about  her, 
listening  with  eager  eyes  and  open  mouths.  I 
slipped  into  their  house  by  the  back  door,  and  the 
mother-in-law  did  not  see  me.  It  was  terrible. 
A-doo  was  in  bed,  she  did  not  know  me.  The  old 
mother  wept.  ‘  She  has  been  this  way  from  the  first 
week,’  she  said.  ‘Her  husband  came  back  and  took 
away  her  money  and  beat  her.  He  thinks  she  still 
has  more  money,  and  sometimes  he  comes  back  and 
beats  her  and  beats  her,  but  A-doo  won’t  speak  to 
him.  He  thinks  she  is  hiding  more  money,  but  I 
have  not  seen  it.  I  tell  him  he  will  kill  her,  and  then 
how  will  she  ever  work  for  him  any  more.  I  tell 
him  he  is  foolish,  but  he  is  filled  with  wind  and  will 
not  see  sense.  When  he  has  beaten  A-doo,  then  he 
creeps  through  the  mats  to  the  house  of  his  mother, 
and  I  hear  them  talking  and  whispering  till  late  in 
the  night.’ 

“I  asked  them  both  to  come  back  in  the  boat  with 
me,  but  the  old  woman  wouldn’t.  She  said  it  was 
fate.  They  would  lose  face  if  they  ran  away.  In 
the  morning  before  I  left,  A-doo  knew  me.  She 
brought  back  her  eyes  from  the  clouds,  and  her  soul 
seemed  to  return  to  her  for  a  minute.  She  cried, 
and  said  she  would  like  to  come  back  to  the  hospital. 


239 


THE  SEEKING  HAND  , 

v> 

But  then  the  mother-in-law  came  in,  and  A-doo’s 
eyes  went  back  to  the  clouds,  and  her  soul  was  gone 
again. 

“Oh!  Save  her!  Bring  her  back  to  life!  If  she 
stays  there  much  longer,  she  will  die.  I  know.  The 
witch  will  do  it.  This  is  not  foolishness.  I  too  am 
a  Christian,  but  a  power  of  the  devil  resides  in  some 
people.  They  are  evil,  and  their  thoughts,  if  they 
think  of  you,  are  evil  and  have  an  evil  power  to 
harm.” 

I  went  to  the  matron  for  advice,  and  discovered  an 
item  of  news  that  astounded  me.  A-doo’s  husband 
had  found  a  position  as  house  boy  in  a  family  living 
near  by,  on  Avenue  Road.  The  matron  had  known 
it  for  a  long  time.  An  exhorting  council  was  ar¬ 
ranged —  the  matron,  the  Chinese  minister,  his  wife 
who  was  a  doctor,  San  Me,  and  myself.  This,  it 
seemed,  was  the  proper  Chinese  way  of  appealing  to 
the  husband.  He  would  not  lose  face  if  he  yielded 
to  such  illustrious  pressure.  I  wanted  him  to  go 
home  and  bring  A-doo  back  to  the  hospital  and 
make  his  mother  stop  her  public  reviling.  The 
council  was  arranged  for  the  next  day.  I  had  given 
a  promise  that  the  meeting  was  not  a  trap,  that  no 
police  would  be  called,  that  I  would  allow  the  hus¬ 
band  to  go  as  freely  as  he  came.  Wang  S  Moo,  San 
Me,  and  I  arrived  at  the  guest  room  of  the  minister’s 
house  first.  Mrs.  Lok  greeted  us  and  led  us  to  our 
seats.  The  minister  soon  joined  us,  and  we  sat 
around  the  room  in  silent  formality.  A  strange 
company  we  were  and  on  a  stranger  errand.  In  the 
center  of  the  room  was  a  small  marble-topped  table. 


240 


MY,  CHINESE  DAYS 


On  opposite  sides  were  two  stools.  Wang  S  Moo 
and  Mrs.  Lok  talked  in  subdued  voices.  Mr.  Lok 
was  to  be  the  spokesman ;  we  were  simply  to  lend 
our  presence.  The  husband,  accompanied  by  a 
friend,  arrived  very  promptly.  The  man  looked 
around  furtively  as  if  still  fearing  some  hidden 
treachery.  Mr.  Lok  motioned  him  to  one  of  the 
stools  at  the  center  table,  and  he  took  the  other. 
Then  began  the  exhortation.  It  was  a  scene  I  shall 
never  forget.  Like  silent  images,  we  sat  around  the 
walls  of  the  small  room,  our  eyes  and  ears  focussed 
on  the  arena,  on  the  figure  of  the  minister  and  the 
thief.  Very  graciously  and  suavely  Mr.  Lok  began 
his  exhortation.  My  ears  followed  his  words  with 
feverish  attention.  Like  the  muffled  roar  of  a  far- 
off  waterfall,  the  tones  of  his  words  rose  and  fell. 
Graphic,  subtle,  conciliating,  the  man  pleaded  that 
the  thief  husband  allow  his  wife  to  come  back  to  the 
hospital.  Did  he  not  know  all  in  the  hospital  were 
the  friends  of  A-doo  ?  Had  she  not  worked  with  us 
for  ten  years,  years  during  which  time  he  himself 
was  unable  to  care  for  her?  Was  not  the  foreign 
house  like  an  adopted  home  to  her?  Were  not  the 
foreigners  like  adopted  parents  to  her?  We  would 
cherish  her  and  restore  her  to  health.  If,  when  she 
was  well  again,  he  wanted  her,  then  that  would  be  an 
affair  for  them  to  settle  together,  but  now,  while  she 
was  sick  and  in  danger  of  losing  her  mind,  now  was 
the  time  to  confide  her  to  the  care  of  the  foreigners. 
On  and  on  he  went.  It  seemed  impossible  to  me  that 
any  one  could  withstand  such  an  appeal.  But  the 
husband  did. 


THE  SEEKING  HAND 


241 


It  was  true,  he  said,  the  foreigners  were  good 
to  his  wife,  but  it  was  also  true  that  she  had  con¬ 
tracted  this  mortal  sickness  while  working  like  a 
servant  in  their  hospital.  He  did  not  find  it  fitting 
for  his  wife  to  work  as  a  servant.  He  had  heard  the 
nurses  were  forced  to  do  the  work  of  amahs.  No, 
it  was  not  fitting  for  his  wife.  Moreover  the  new 
doctor  was  fierce  and  had  spoken  very  fiercely  to  him. 
How  did  he  know  she  would  be  good  to  his  wife  ? 

I  was  hot  with  rage  and  disappointment  and 
chagrin.  I  also  accused  myself  of  my  former  dom¬ 
ineering  manner.  If  I  had  only  been  soft-spoken  ! 
Now  he  had  me  at  his  mercy.  But  Mr.  Lok  made 
light  of  his  argument.  He  painted  my  character 
as  a  dove  of  peace,  fierce  only  in  the  defense  of 
her  children.  On  flowed  his  words,  but  now  I  had 
ceased  to  listen.  Instead  I  watched  the  face  of  the 
thief.  If  he  should  not  yield,  I  determined  to  see  if 
a  prison  might  not  again  be  found  for  him.  I  knew 
there  were  crimes  enough  to  commit  him,  for  Wang 
S  Moo  had  just  been  telling  me  of  the  disappearance 
of  silver,  piece  by  piece,  in  the  house  where  he  was 
at  service.  I  hated  him ;  a  personal  spite  filled  me 
with  a  startling,  strong  emotion.  He  was  vile,  and 
he  was  balking  me. 

Our  words  were  wasted  like  water  thrown  against 
a  wall.  Mr.  Lok  and  the  thief,  polite  to  the  end, 
talked  on.  The  man  had  no  idea  of  yielding,  and  I 
wondered  why  he  had  come.  I  wondered  if  we 
should  have  offered  him  money.  Of  course  we  could 
not  have  done  it,  but  still  I  wondered.  Finally  I  got 
up  and  left.  I  could  not  sit  there  and  watch  him 


242 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


any  longer,  smiling  and  smiling  like  a  villain.  Wang 
S  Moo  said  he  promised  to  write  to  his  mother-in-law, 
telling  her  to  urge  A-doo  to  come  back.  “If  she 
does  not  come,”  the  husband  said  craftily,  “it  will 
be  because  she  does  not  wish  to.  She  is  quite  free. 
I  would  not  force  her  to  anything.  Did  she  not  go 
of  her  own  free  will  ?  I  did  not  send  for  her,  I  did 
not  urge  her.  If  she  wants  to  come  back  she  will 
come,  but  I  do  not  think  she  will  come. 

He  must  have  gone  home  satisfied  with  his  re¬ 
venge.  I  cried  myself  to  sleep  and  sent  out  a  piteous 
telepathic  message  into  the  void  air  for  Edward. 
I  needed  him  in  my  work;  I  was  thwarted  by  a 
Chinese  thief !  I  wanted  some  one  ruthless  and 
strong  to  come  to  my  rescue,  to  thrust  the  man  out 
of  my  way.  I  wondered,  whether  A-doo  too  was  cry¬ 
ing  ?  But  no,  San  Me  said  she  sat  and  smiled  at  the 
clouds. 

A  week  went  by,  but  no  word  came  from  A-doo, 
no  word  came  from  Edward.  Doctor  Donnellon 
was  still  away,  but  Miss  Laurie  was  back.  I  could 
stand  it  no  longer.  I  left  the  hospital  in  her  care 
and  set  off  up  river  with  San  Me  for  the  home  of 
A-doo.  We  started  late  in  the  day,  so  that  we 
should  arrive  unobserved  and  unheralded  in  the 
dusk.  The  village  was  but  twelve  miles  distant. 
The  evangelist  had  lent  us  her  house  boat,  in  which 
she  made  her  preaching  trips,  and  her  boatman. 
The  man  was  a  Christian  and  had  long  been  a 
trusted  servant  of  the  mission.  If  we  brought  back 
a  kidnapped  woman  with  us  on  our  return  trip,  he 
would  make  no  demur.  Such  was  my  plan.  We 


THE  SEEKING  HAND 


243 


would  arrive  after  dark,  San  Me  would  lead  me  to 
the  home  of  A-doo,  I  would  persuade  one  or  both  of 
them  to  come  back  with  me,  and  we  would  creep 
back  to  the  boat  at  once.  It  was  a  very  simple  plan, 
but  my  heart  misgave  me. 

San  Me  busied  herself  in  the  cabin  of  the  little 
boat.  The  boatman  swayed  back  and  forth  with 
his  oar.  Out  from  the  tangle  of  houses  we  slipped, 
out  past  the  silk  filatures  of  Chapei,  past  the  village 
of  Zau  Ka  Doo,  where  the  house  boats  were  moored 
along  the  shore,  and  the  willows  trailed  their 
branches  in  the  brown  water,  past  the  compound  of 
the  mission  school  and  college  at  Jessfield,  where  the 
foreign  houses  were  half  hidden  among  the  tall  palms 
and  cryptomeria  of  the  campus,  past  the  ferry 
stones  and  the  flat-bottomed  ferry,  out  into  fields. 
It  was  already  twilight.  A  lantern  dangled  at  our 
prow  and  our  stern.  The  current  swished  around 
the  curves  of  the  shore  and  beat  against  the  side  of 
the  boat  in  a  gentle  gurgle.  Past  us,  like  huge  bats 
with  outspread  wings,  brown-sailed  junks  floated 
down  with  the  tide  to  Shanghai.  A  carriage  with 
two  occupants  galloped  along  the  shore.  A  man 
began  to  whistle  merrily;  the  gay  western  tune 
mocked  the  silent  stealing  river.  At  the  customs 
station,  the  custom  boat  was  alight  with  lanterns, 
and  sounds  of  laughter  floated  out  over  the  water. 
Soon  we  were  beyond  the  noises  of  gaiety.  Gray- 
brown,  misty,  the  fields  stretched  away  on  either  side 
of  us.  We  passed  the  abandoned  shrine  with  its 
ancient  Buddha  which  we  had  passed  the  day 
Edward  proposed  to  me,  passed  it  and  went  on 


244 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


farther  and  farther  into  the  country.  Through  the 
mist  of  the  fields,  here  and  there,  rose  a  hedge  of 
bamboo  and  cypress  like  an  Indian  stockade,  sur¬ 
rounding  a  group  of  clannish  homes.  A  dog  would 
bark  suddenly  and  as  suddenly  fall  silent.  In  about 
two  hours,  lights  appeared  along  the  edge  of  the  creek. 

“The  village  of  A-doo,”  said  San  Me.  “We  will 
go  to  the  steps  behind  her  house,  where  her  mother 
washes  the  rice,  and  moor  the  boat.  Alas,  that  the 
house  of  the  mother-in-law  is  next  door !  It  will  be 
necessary  to  be  very  quiet.  If  she  is  sitting  out  in 
front  reviling,  perhaps  she  will  not  hear  us.” 

Like  phantoms  we  glided  over  the  water  and 
moored  at  the  foot  of  the  ancient  stones.  I  waited 
while  San  Me  went  in  to  reconnoiter.  With  her 
shoes  in  her  hand,  she  tiptoed  up  the  stone  steps 
and  vanished  through  an  open  door.  I  stood  on 
the  lowest  step  and  waited.  No  sound  of  voices 
filled  the  evening.  The  village  seemed  to  have  gone 
to  sleep.  We  were  later  than  I  had  calculated.  A 
spice  of  danger  tingled  through  me.  We  had  come 
like  thieves  in  the  night.  A  bird  called  suddenly 
from  a  tree  and  I  trembled.  Then  San  Me  came 
back,  followed  by  the  old  mother,  and  we  crouched 
on  the  boat  and  talked  in  whispers. 

She  refused  to  slip  away  now.  She  said  A-doo 
would  not  come  in  the  dark.  She  said  that  if  they 
slipped  away  now,  in  the  dark,  they  would  lose  their 
home  and  could  never  come  back  again.  She  was 
afraid.  Then  she  invited  us  to  spend  the  night 
with  her  and  make  an  open  visit.  She  said  it  would 
give  her  face  in  the  eyes  of  the  village. 


THE  SEEKING  HAND 


24S 


“What  shall  we  do?”  I  asked  San  Me. 

“I  think  we  should  do  as  she  says,”  said  San  Me. 
“If  she  and  A-doo  will  not  steal  away  with  us  now, 
at  once,  it  is  useless  to  try  to  take  them.  To  do 
anything  secretly,  we  must  have  their  consent.  So 
then,  the  next  best  thing  is  to  stay,  and  make  them 
an  honorable  visit.” 

I  consented.  We  walked  boldly  up  the  moss- 
grown  stones,  chatting  pleasantly.  In  the  living 
room,  A-doo  already  lay  in  bed.  I  went  over  to  her, 
but  she  did  not  know  me  at  all.  In  fact,  I  do  not 
think  she  even  saw  me.  She  lay  on  her  back  with 
her  eyes  wide  open  and  staring  at  the  ceiling.  I  was 
shocked  at  the  poverty  of  the  place.  It  consisted 
of  one  earthen-floored  room.  At  the  back  stood 
the  charcoal  cook  stove.  At  each  side  of  the  room 
was  a  low  bed.  The  mother  brewed  us  a  fresh  cup 
of  tea  and  set  a  bowl  of  rice  before  us.  I  said  I  was 
tired,  and  they  spread  me  a  fresh  comfort  on  the 
opposite  bed.  I  demurred,  but  San  Me  and  the 
mother  insisted. 

“We  do  not  want  to  sleep,”  they  said.  “We  can 
sleep  any  night.  Tonight  we  will  talk.” 

I  was  tired,  and  in  spite  of  shuddering  as  I  lay 
down  on  the  strange  bed,  I  went  right  to  sleep. 

A  faint  blue  light  filled  the  room,  seeping  in 
through  the  lattice  work  of  the  wooden  doors  in  front 
and  through  various,  unobserved  chinks  in  the  walls 
and  floor.  In  its  grayness,  the  hut  looked  poorer 
and  meaner  than  by  candlelight.  San  Me  and  the 
mother  were  gone.  In  the  bed  opposite  I  saw  the 
inert  figure  of  A-doo.  While  I  lay  there,  half  awake 


246 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


and  unmoving,  a  stealthy  noise  caught  my  ear.  I 
wanted  to  turn  my  head  to  look,  but  by  a  strong 
effort  of  will,  I  lay  still  and  closed  my  eyes,  all  but  a 
crack  between  my  eyelashes.  Behind  me,  the  soft 
stealthy  sounds  crept  on.  A  board  creaked.  I  saw 
a  small  stooping  shadow  on  the  opposite  wall.  The 
shadow  vanished  on  the  ceiling,  and  the  figure  of 
the  mother-in-law  appeared,  standing  at  the  bedside 
of  A-doo.  Quite  motionless  the  figure  stood  there. 
I  only  saw  its  back.  It  bent,  and  I  saw  a  thin  hand 
shoot  out  and  disappear  under  the  bedclothes.  The 
witch  kneeled  down  on  the  boards  and  bent  over 
A-doo,  searching,  searching.  A-doo  slept  on.  Did 
she  sleep  as  I  slept,  with  a  crack  of  pale  gray  dawn 
between  her  eyelashes,  or  did  she  sleep  a  sodden, 
dreamless  sleep  that  felt  not  the  searching  hand 
beneath  her  body.  Five,  ten  minutes,  the  hand 
searched  the  bed  of  A-doo,  softly,  gently,  insistently. 
Baffled,  the  figure  arose  and  crept  about  the  room, 
peering  into  every  cranny,  and  feeling,  feeling 
everywhere  with  her  searching  hand.  Under  the 
cold  stove,  on  the  dressing  stand,  in  the  drawers, 
in  the  dark  nooks  on  the  floor,  at  last  the  searching 
hand  came  to  the  curtains  of  my  bed.  Through  the 
crack  of  my  eyelashes  I  saw  the  sudden  start  of 
horror  that  spread  over  her  face  when  she  recognized 
me.  As  if  frozen  the  mother-in-law  stood  with  the 
curtains  in  her  hand,  looking  at  me.  My  eyes  flew 
open,  and  I  stared  up  at  her.  A  sudden  trembling 
shook  her  from  head  to  foot.  Her  eyes  fell  away, 
and  she  ran  out  of  the  room. 

A  moment  later  San  Me  and  the  mother  of  A-doo 


THE  SEEKING  HAND 


247 


returned.  Seeing  me  awake,  they  displayed  the 
purchases  they  had  made  for  breakfast.  They  were 
going  to  make  me  a  feast  and  they  had  already 
invited  the  neighbors.  The  old  mother  hurried 
around  as  if  burdened  with  no  sorrow.  A-doo 
seemed  to  waken  from  her  stupor.  She  knew  San 
Me  and  she  knew  me.  A  sudden  look  of  acute  com¬ 
prehension  lit  up  her  face. 

“Her  soul  has  come  back  to  feast  with  us,”  cried 
her  mother. 

Still  with  that  uncanny  look  of  acuteness  in  her 
eyes,  A-doo  bent  down  and  pulled  off  a  slipper. 
She  held  it  carefully  in  her  hands  and  ripped  the 
stitches  of  the  sole.  The  leather  peeled  off,  as  the 
skin  of  an  orange  peels  off.  Underneath,  in  a  long 
smooth  roll,  lay  ten  ten-dollar  bills.  She  took  out 
one  and  handed  it  to  me.  “Make  it  into  small 
change  for  me,”  she  said,  “  so  that  the  villagers 
and  my  mother-in-law  shall  not  suspect.  Every 
morning  when  my  mother  goes  to  market,  she 
comes  creeping  in  with  the  searching  hand,  feel¬ 
ing,  feeling  everywhere  for  my  wealth.  But  she 
does  not  find  it.  No,  she  does  not  find  it. 
Though  I  am  asleep,  I  know  when  she  comes, 
and  my  soul  laughs.” 

A-doo  sewed  up  the  sole  of  the  slipper  again.  The 
mother  hid  the  change  I  gave  her  in  a  hole  she  dug 
in  the  ground  under  the  wall  just  inside  the  kitchen. 
A-doo  took  a  tiny,  four-legged,  wooden  stool  out 
into  the  sun  and  sat  on  it.  I  went  out  to  talk 
to  her,  but  already  she  had  lapsed  back  into  that 
slumberous  state  of  stupor.  Her  eyes  were  on 


24B 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


the  sailing  white  clouds,  floating  overhead  like 
feathers  against  the  blue,  casting  soft,  gray-green, 
cloud  shadows  on  the  fields  beneath.  She  was 
smiling  to  herself.  One  slipper,  the  slipper  with 
the  padded  sole,  kept  time  to  a  little  tune  she 
sang  beneath  her  breath. 


XIX 


THE  FLAMING  WIND 

FOR  three  days  we  had  been  having  a  typhoon. 
The  wind,  dry  and  dustladen,  beat  against 
the  houses  and  sifted  clouds  of  white  dust 
through  the  windows  and  cracks.  On  the  bare 
floors  of  the  hospital  the  white  dust  lay  like  a  carpet 
patterned  with  footprints.  Every  two  hours  the 
amahs  mopped  the  floors.  In  the  house  I  had  shut 
my  study  windows.  Then  the  heat  choked  me,  so 
I  opened  them  again,  and  the  insidious  white  dust 
veils  drifted  back.  Three  days  of  it,  and  our  nerves 
were  on  edge.  That  hot  persistent,  dust-laden 
wind  does  the  strangest  things  to  the  human  body. 
It  takes  the  most  calm,  phlegmatic,  serene  person 
and  turns  her  into  a  taut,  quivering,  jumpy  creature 
full  of  whims  and  fancies.  Nothing  in  nature  has 
quite  the  same  power  that  the  hot,  fierce  wind  of  the 
typhoon  has.  It  is  like  the  prelude  to  a  tragedy. 
All  the  patients  were  worse.  The  nurses  were 
tired  and  worn  out.  I  was  ready  to  scream  from 
nervous  excitement. 

In  the  afternoon,  a  call  came  from  Pootung.  A 
woman  had  fallen  from  a  second-story  bal  jony  and 
had  broken  her  leg.  Her  son  and  her  husband 
came  for  me. 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


250 

“You  can’t  go  to  Pootung  in  this  wind,”  said  Miss 
Laurie.  “It  is  dangerous  to  cross  the  river.” 

“No  dangerous,”  said  the  son.  “There  are  little 
waves,  but  we  have  a  big  junk.  My  mother  lies 
in  the  courtyard  with  her  leg  doubled  up  under  her, 
moaning  with  pain.” 

“  I’ll  go,”  I  said.  “  I  don’t  mind  a  few  whitecaps.” 

In  the  morning  and  for  the  past  three  days  the  sun 
had  been  shining  brilliantly,  its  glare  even  brighter 
than  usual.  But  in  the  afternoon  a  thin  diaphanous 
film  of  cloud  was  slowly  being  drawn  up  over  the 
heavens.  It  crept  up  the  sky  like  a  crawling  mist. 
Its  edges  were  blown  out  in  banners  and  streamers  of 
white.  So  transparent  was  this  cloud  that  the  sun 
still  shone  brightly,  except  that  its  terrible  blinding 
glare  was  somewhat  mitigated. 

We  set  off  in  a  little  procession  of  three  rickshas,  I 
in  the  last.  On  the  street  swirls  of  dust  were  caught 
up  from  the  roadside  and  eddied  along  in  a  mad, 
whirling  dance.  Our  eyes  were  filled  with  it ;  even 
my  tongue  tasted  dry  and  bitter.  In  spite  of  hat¬ 
pins,  I  could  not  make  my  hat  stay  on  my  head,  so  I 
took  it  off  and  held  it  in  my  lap.  The  wind  tore  at 
my  hairpins  and  scattered  them  in  a  little  shower 
along  the  road.  My  skirts  ballooned  out  about  my 
feet. 

The  road  was  almost  empty.  Some  of  the  houses 
had  put  up  their  wooden  night  shutters  as  a  pro¬ 
tection  against  the  wind  and  dust.  The  occupants, 
sitting  in  the  semi-dusk  of  the  windowless  interior, 
gathered  around  the  open  space  where  the  last 
shutter  had  not  yet  been  put  up.  In  little  groups 


THE  FLAMING  WIND 


351 

they  peered  out  on  the  street  and  whispered  among 
themselves.  Now  and  then  a  coolie  darted  out 
on  an  urgent  errand,  or  a  baby  toddled  out  and 
was  snatched  back.  The  town  was  demoralized. 
Business  had  come  to  a  standstill.  The  groups  in  the 
doorways  gazed  at  me  with  curious  eyes.  “She 
fears  not,”  I  heard  them  mutter. 

They  were  right,  I  was  not  afraid.  Unhappiness 
gives  one  a  false  courage.  If  Edward  didn’t  come 
back  and  come  back  soon,  I  didn’t  care  what  became 
of  me.  Once  and  for  all  in  the  last  two  dragging 
months  I  had  learned  my  lesson.  I  had  not  the 
vestige  of  a  doubt  left  as  to  what  I  wanted.  I  knew 
that  industry,  work,  were  but  pale  fitful  gleams 
against  the  burning  warmth  of  motherhood  and  love. 
If  only  he  w'ould  come  back ! 

[  Nanking  Road  was  also  deserted.  The  race 
track  lay  like  a  white  mat  beyond.  I  looked  up  at 
the  Grand  Hotel.  Its  balconies  were  shuttered,  and 
its  awnings  drawn  up  and  carefully  tied,  but  I 
suddenly  had  the  eerie  sensation  of  being  watched 
from  behind  one  of  the  closed  shutters.  The  slats 
were  level  and  horizontal,  and  through  the  slits  I 
saw  the  dim  outline  of  a  white  form.  I  knew  I  was 
being  watched.  A  wild  hope  made  my  heart  knock 
against  my  ribs.  I  was  always  having  such  attacks 
of  hope.  Sometimes  a  figure  that  looked  familiar 
in  the  distance  sent  my  heart  into  my  throat,  but 
when  I  arrived  at  the  spot  where  I  had  seen  the 
figure,  I  found  no  one.  The  garter,  tying  the  left 
trouser  of  my  runner  at  his  ankle,  came  undone. 
Like  a  black  snake  it  coiled  and  reared  itself  around 


252 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


his  foot.  He  stopped  and  tilted  down  the  shafts. 
As  I  slid  forward,  half  standing,  my  eyes  fastened 
upon  that  shutter.  I  met  a  pair  of  eyes.  Suddenly 
I  raised  my  hand  and  beckoned  to  that  hidden 
watcher.  The  coolie,  fatally  deft  and  quick,  tied 
his  ankle-strap  and  rushed  off  at  double  quick  after 
my  two  guides.  I  turned  to  look  back,  but  the 
shutter  was  still  closed. 

The  usual  crowd  of  rickshas  and  wheelbarrows 
was  gone,  as  we  sped  down  the  smooth,  asphalted 
street  at  a  marathon  speed.  At  the  jetty  a  little 
tilting  rowboat  was  waiting  for  us.  Its  yellow  eyes 
were  bulging  on  each  side  of  the  prow,  and  the  stern 
tilted  up  in  the  air  like  the  poop  of  an  ancient 
galley. 

“I  thought  you  had  a  big  junk  for  me,”  I  said, 
hesitating. 

“This  is  a  big  junk,”  they  said. 

I  got  in.  Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  that  we  had 
no  sail.  I  saw  one  house  boat  with  a  tall  brown  sail 
go  tearing  past  like  a  runaway  boat,  the  men  on  her 
sitting  on  the  gunwale,  grinning.  They  seemed  to 
like  it.  Along  the  shore  a  host  of  craft  were  moored 
—  rafts,  junks,  house  boats,  steam  launches,  and 
foreign  white-painted,  white-sailed  cat-boats.  The 
plane  trees  on  the  bund  and  in  the  garden  made  a 
noise  like  violin  strings,  as  their  leaves  whipped 
back  and  forth  and  up  and  down  in  the  wind.  On 
the  water  the  waves  leaped  up  in  white  spray, 
hiding  the  brown  stream.  Our  futile  cockleshell 
danced  up  and  down.  Half  the  time  the  oar  was 
out  of  water. 


THE  FLAMING  WIND 


253 

“Can  you  swim?”  I  asked  the  son. 

“No,”  he  said.  “Why  should  I  swim?” 

“For  your  life,”  I  thought.  I  could  swim,  but 
in  spite  of  that  comforting  fact  I  seemed  more  per¬ 
turbed  than  the  Chinese.  Little  by  little  we  got 
across,  not  so  much  by  rowing  in  a  steady  direction, 
as  by  a  series  of  hops  and  jumps.  The  Pootung 
shore  wras  crowded  with  house  boats.  A  regular 
fleet  of  junks  clustered  along  the  shore.  The  tobacco 
factories,  the  great  silk  mills,  and  the  godowns  of 
tallow  and  opium  rose  in  a  black  shapeless  bulk 
along  the  water  front.  They  were  a  modern  barrier 
to  the  ancient  pastoral  life  beyond,  life  that  persisted 
unchanged  from  the  days  of  Abraham  till  now,  life 
that  would  persist  forever  and  ever.  The  streets 
were  dark  and  empty,  but  from  the  whirring  of  a 
million  spindles  I  knew  that  this  subtle,  upsetting 
wand  had  not  stopped  the  wheels  of  modern  industry. 

The  thin,  diaphanous  veil  of  white  cloud  had  spread 
over  the  entire  sky.  Layer  after  layer  of  filmy 
mist  had  deepened  its  v^hite  to  a  soft  gray,  through 
which  the  sun  barely  filtered  like  pale  moonlight. 
Twilight  had  fallen  early  in  the  afternoon.  I  felt 
that  the  mills  ought  to  close,  that  they  were  working 
on  into  the  night,  in  defiance  of  the  menacing  change 
in  nature.  Inhuman,  regardless  of  the  signs  in  the 
heavens,  they  held  captive  their  throngs  of  women 
and  children.  I  looked  in  quickly  through  the 
windows  and  saw  the  revolving  spindles  and  the 
workers  moving  mysteriously  among  the  machinery. 

The  town  was  but  a  thin  wall  along  the  river 
front,  and  we  were  soon  out  in  the  fields.  A  short 


254 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


ride  brought  us  to  a  neat  house  of  plaster  and 
thatch,  standing  in  a  grove  of  young  bamboo. 
They  bent  over,  touching  their  frond-like  tips  in  a 
deep  kowtow  to  the  ground.  Out  here,  on  the  edge 
of  the  plains,  the  wind  met  us  with  augmented 
force,  sweeping  up  from  out  an  inferno  of  torrid 
heat.  My  skin  was  parched  and  dry.  I  wiped  my 
face  off  with  my  handkerchief.  The  linen  was 
covered  with  a  fine  dry  gritty  sand.  Around  the 
house  the  chickens  and  dogs  had  found  shelter  within 
the  courtyard. 

The  old  mother  was  in  a  pitiable  condition.  While 
the  men  were  gone,  her  daughter  and  her  daughter- 
in-law  had  managed  to  get  her  to  bed.  They  had 
slipped  a  shutter  under  her,  and  so  had  lifted  her 
from  the  ground  and  carried  her  up  to  her  room, 
Her  leg  was  horribly  twisted.  She  had  been  lean¬ 
ing  on  the  railing  of  the  second-story  balcony  when 
it  had  suddenly  given  away  and  she  had  fallen  head¬ 
long  on  to  the  flagging  of  the  courtyard. 

“The  sleeping  medicine,”  she  moaned. 

I  gave  her  some  whiffs  of  chloroform  and  set  her 
leg.  I  also  attended  to  five  or  six  bruises  upon  her 
body.  It  took  me  in  all  about  an  hour,  and  in 
that  time  darkness  had  descended  over  the  land. 
In  the  blackness  without,  neither  sun  nor  moon 
nor  stars  were  visible.  In  the  house  they  lit 
a  few  candles  which  were  continually  going  out 
in  a  sudden  draft. 

I  went  to  the  door  and  stood  a  moment  before 
starting  back,  looking  out  over  the  fields  and  listen¬ 
ing  to  the  roar  of  the  wind.  As  I  stood  tilted  for- 


THE  FLAMING  WIND 


255 


ward,  leaning  against  it,  it  was  like  a  tangible 
support. 

Finally  stooping  in  the  face  of  the  wind,  I  set 
forth.  The  father  and  son  accompanied  me.  When 
a  great  gust  came  whirling  down  the  narrow  alley, 
they  steadied  me  by  my  elbows.  The  whirring  of 
the  machinery  in  the  mills  told  me  it  was  not  yet 
six  o’clock,  yet  it  seemed  like  midnight.  People 
ran  here  and  there,  in  a  sudden  feverish  activity, 
doing  their  last  errands  for  the  night.  At  the  boat, 
the  father  and  son  left  me,  and  the  oarsman  pushed 
off.  That  crossing  was  as  the  crossing  of  the  river 
Styx.  I  could  not  see  the  water;  I  only  felt  its 
turbulent  tossing,  as  hither  and  thither  we  danced. 
The  spray  wet  my  face.  The  wind  redoubled  its 
fury,  and  my  hair  streamed  out  behind,  giving  me 
the  strangest  sense  of  adding  to  the  motion  and  the 
blackness.  We  seemed  to  make  no  headway  at  all. 
I  could  just  distinguish  the  figure  of  the  oarsman 
flinging  his  weight  on  the  rope  of  the  oar  at  each 
stroke.  At  each  recoil  he  sang  a  low  musical  note. 
The  river  was  alive  with  a  hidden  flotilla  of  boats. 
Now  on  one  side,  now  on  the  other,  came  the  call 
of  the  rowers. 

Suddenly  the  Stygian  blackness  was  rent  with 
flame.  A  godown  at  the  very  edge  of  the  water 
spouted  fountains  of  yellow  light.  The  wind  caught 
the  flames  and  wove  them  in  and  out  in  a  fantastic 
pattern.  Like  rockets  and  meteors  of  red  and  gold, 
the  flames  melted  into  the  blackness  of  the  tempest. 
The  shore  was  alive  with  shouting.  We  heard  a 
great  splintering  of  wood,  and,  suddenly,  streams  of 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


256 

liquid  fire  ran  out  on  the  water  and  spread  over  it. 
From  the  burning  streams  great  mountains  of  fire 
towered  into  the  air. 

“The  tallow  factory  is  burning,”  said  the  rower. 
“See  how  the  fire  dragons  live  on  the  water.” 

Fascinated,  forgetful  of  any  personal  danger,  the 
rower  stopped  working,  and  we  drifted.  From 
the  godown  on  the  shore  great  fiery  waterfalls  of 
yellow  and  red,  of  purple  and  green  flame,  poured 
out  upon  the  water.  This  molten  mass  of  burning 
tallow  rushed  out  on  the  water  as  a  mass  of  lava, 
turning  the  blackness  of  the  water  into  a  river  of 
fire.  Pieces  were  torn  loose  from  the  mass  by  the 
typhoon  and  hurried  away  in  burning  islands.  The 
whole  river  was  aflame !  In  this  flaring  light, 
Shanghai  was  illumined  in  a  silhouette  blackness. 
The  wind  tore  off  molten  pieces  of  tallow  and  carried 
them  in  flaming  balls  of  fire  high  into  the  air.  On 
the  shore  the  sound  of  people  screaming  filled  the 
night.  Other  buildings  sprang  into  flame.  Black¬ 
ness  and  flame,  the  screaming  wind,  the  tossing 
water ! 

I  was  afraid.  It  was  like  the  end  of  the  world  ;  it 
was  hell  let  loose  upon  the  earth. 

A  sudden  tongue  of  flame  wriggled  our  way  on  the 
water.  The  Chinaman  began  to  row  frantically. 
Near  us,  we  saw  a  junk  caught  and  encircled  with 
the  burning  tallow.  The  wood  of  the  junk  caught 
on  fire,  and  the  flames  rushed  up  the  sails.  Frenzied 
shrieks  rent  the  air.  The  boat  and  the  burning 
tallow  bore  down  upon  us,  and  I  expected  to  be 
engulfed  in  a  moment  in  the  ever-burning,  relentless 


THE  FLAMING  WIND 


357 

river  of  fire.  Then  the  wind  veered.  The  tower  of 
flames  drifted  past  us,  and  we  were  safe  for  the 
moment.  The  whole  river,  from  shore  to  shore,  was 
a  mass  of  leaping,  spreading  flames,  through  which 
the  black  water  showed  like  little  pathways.  I 
watched  the  wind  catch  up  a  flame  and  twist  it  and 
toss  it  into  aerial,  fairy  shapes  of  wonder  and  glory. 
On  the  shore  the  fire  swept  along  in  unchecked 
triumph. 

By  some  miracle  we  reached  the  other  shore  in 
safety.  On  the  steps  of  the  jetty  stood  Edward.  He 
picked  me  up  in  his  arms  and  whispered  things  in 
my  ears  that  I  shall  never  forget. 


XX 


THE  RIVER  OF  SILENCE 

IT  was  the  day  after  the  Great  Typhoon,  at  least 
so  the  world  of  Shanghai  counted.  For  me 
it  was  the  day  after  Edward  came  back.  All 
my  doubts,  all  my  fears  were  swept  away  when  he 
gathered  me  into  his  arms,  and  a  great  peace  en¬ 
veloped  my  soul.  In  the  night  the  wind  had  in¬ 
creased  a  hundredfold.  We  were  all  sleeping  in 
our  row  of  cots  on  the  second-story  porch,  when 
suddenly  my  covers  were  whisked  off  me.  I  sat 
up  in  bed  just  in  time  to  see  them  disappear  into 
the  darkness  like  the  sudden  spreading  of  a  ghost’s 
wings.  The  bamboo  blinds  began  to  flap  wildly. 
At  the  end  of  the  porch,  one  tore  loose  from  its 
moorings  and  beat  against  the  ceiling  and  the  floor 
in  a  wild  tattoo. 

The  rain  came  down  in  torrents.  It  swept  in 
under  the  high  roof  of  the  porch  and  drenched  the 
bed  and  our  clothes  and  our  hair.  The  night  was 
pitch  black.  Something  had  happened  to  the  elec¬ 
tric  lights,  so  that  the  house  was  in  darkness.  Some 
one  lit  a  candle,  but  the  wind  blew  it  out  with 
a  derisive  puff.  In  the  darkness,  with  the  rain 
soaking  through  our  nightgowns  till  we  were  as 
wet  as  if  we  had  been  in  bathing,  we  struggled  with 


THE  RIVER  OF  SILENCE 


259 


the  bedding  on  the  cots,  dragging  in  sheets  and 
blankets  and  mattresses.  My  hair  was  loose  and 
lying  like  a  wet  shawl  on  my  shoulders.  The  chairs 
and  the  table  blew  over  with  a  loud  reverberation. 
The  loosened  blind  flapped  distractingly.  The  whole 
house  groaned  and  shook  with  the  might  of  the 
wind.  Wet  and  shivering,  like  rescued  swimmers, 
we  stood  in  fearful  groups  at  the  windows,  fascinated 
by  the  endless  rush  and  whistle  of  the  hurricane. 
Two  more  blinds  tore  loose.  One  was  carried  off 
bodily  into  the  darkness,  the  other  was  torn  in  bits, 
and  pieces  of  shredded  bamboo  like  the  scattered 
fragments  of  a  shredded  wheat  biscuit  were  whirled 
hither  and  thither  into  the  night.  The  sound  of 
the  flapping  curtain  distracted  me.  I  put  on  a  rain 
coat,  tied  up  my  hair,  opened  the  door  on  to  the 
porch,  and  went  out. 

“Be  careful,”  called  Miss  Laurie. 

She  was  too  late. 

The  bamboo  shade,  in  its  swoop  from  ceiling  to 
floor,  hit  me  on  the  head  and  knocked  me  to  the 
floor,  half  dazed.  In  one  gust  the  rain  had  soaked 
me  to  the  skin.  My  coat  was  torn  off  me,  and  sailed 
away  into  the  raging  space.  The  released  blind 
tore  to  and  fro  over  my  head,  hitting  the  ceiling 
with  a  terrific  bang  and  swinging  down  to  the  floor, 
just  grazing  my  head.  Half  of  its  length  was  gone. 
Momently  it  disintegrated.  The  outlines  of  the 
Chinese  houses  close  behind  were  lost.  The  black¬ 
ness  was  as  impenetrable  and  formless  as  if  I  had 
been  on  the  deck  of  the  solitary  surviving  ship  on 
the  ocean.  I  struggled  to  my  knees.  Like  a  living 


26o 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


creature,  filled  with  venom,  and  destruction,  the 
wind  bore  me  to  the  floor  again.  Crash !  Crash ! 
The  night  reverberated  with  sound.  With  a  brisk 
cannonade,  the  Chinese  tiled  roofs  fell  in.  On  my 
hands  and  knees  I  crawled  back  to  the  French 
window.  Miss  Laurie  opened  it  a  crack  and  pulled 
me  in.  In  that  moment  the  wind  also  tore  in  and 
blew  over  the  chairs  and  tables.  The  glass  splin¬ 
tered  into  fragments  and  the  wind  rushed  through 
the  house.  We  managed  to  shut  the  wooden  shut¬ 
ters.  The  servants  came  creeping  in  from  the  back 
quarters,  frightened  to  death. 

That  night  passed  like  an  eternity.  The  others 
went  to  bed.  I  sat  crouching  at  my  one  remaining 
window,  not  that  I  could  see  anything  at  all,  but 
because  I  was  fascinated  by  the  force  of  the  storm. 
I  sat  on  a  cushion  on  the  floor  and  pressed  my  face 
against  the  windowpane.  Again  and  again  came  the 
crash  of  falling  roofs.  Once,  a  piercing  scream  shot 
up  into  the  night.  It  came  right  after  the  thunder 
of  a  falling  roof,  and  a  sudden  shiver  ran  down  my 
spine.  Some  one  was  hurt.  The  noise  of  wind 
was  like  a  mighty  trumpet,  as  it  screamed  and 
shrieked  and  bellowed  through  the  black  darkness 
of  the  night.  It  drowned  the  sound  of  the  rain, 
which  fell  in  torrents  as  from  a  waterspout.  At 
last  the  darkness  was  tinged  with  a  desolate  gray. 
I  saw  the  pillars  of  the  porch  rise  into  view  before 
my  eyes,  and  across  the  garden,  the  dim  peaked 
roofs  of  the  Chinese  houses  appeared  like  outlines 
in  the  clouds.  The  rain  was  driven  over  the  earth 
in  spouts  of  water,  and  the  wind  never  ceased  its 


THE  RIVER  OF  SILENCE 


261 


howling  and  rushing.  I  had  a  sudden  vision  of  the 
power  lying  hidden  in  the  veriest  white  fluff  of  cloud, 
power  against  which  houses  and  bricks  and  mortar 
were  as  thistledown.  I  had  a  quick,  mad  desire 
to  rush  out  and  stand  on  the  railing  of  the  porch 
and  spread  my  arms  to  the  wind  like  wings  and  be 
carried  off.  In  the  gray  darkness  of  the  dawn  I 
would  be  carried  off,  over  the  roofs  of  the  city,  out 
over  the  pathless  plains,  over  the  plains,  over  the 
rivers,  up  and  up,  to  the  hills !  So  swept  the  wind  ! 
Up  from  the  hot  south  of  Formosa,  over  the  China 
Sea,  bursting  in  rushing  sound  and  falling  water 
on  the  banks  of  the  Yangtse  !  I  felt  part  of  it.  I  no 
longer  wanted  to  be  housed  and  protected.  I  wanted 
to  cast  loose  from  the  cramping  safety  and  merge 
myself  with  the  typhoon. 

Morning  came  with  utter  desolation.  Every  tree 
on  the  compound  was  uprooted  and  lay  at  full 
length  on  the  grass.  The  third-story  tuberculosis 
ward  was  a  wreck.  The  Venetian  blinds  were 
wrenched  from  the  window  frames,  tearing  off  long 
strips  of  wood.  The  tables  and  chairs  were  splin¬ 
tered.  The  patients  had  crept  down  in  the  night, 
dragging  their  mattresses  after  them,  and  slept  on 
the  floor  in  the  ward  below.  There  the  ceiling  had 
leaked,  and  great  pools  of  muddy  water  covered 
the  floor  of  the  second-story  ward.  Out-patients, 
with  heads  cut  by  falling  bricks,  crowded  to  the 
clinic. 

Edward  came  with  news  of  the  devastation  in 
the  settlement.  Along  the  bund  all  the  hundred- 
year  planes  were  uprooted,  carrying  great  slabs  of 


262 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


cement  into  the  air.  The  entire  house-boat  popu¬ 
lation  had  been  swept  out  of  existence.  The  Whang- 
poo,  the  Soochow  Creek,  and  all  the  little  tributary 
canals  were  empty  and  bare  of  craft.  Wires  were 
down,  and  the  settlement  was  without  light  and 
telephone. 

The  air  was  full  of  tingling  life.  The  clouds  were 
gathered  up  and  folded  away  like  the  folds  of  a 
closed  camera.  The  sun  shone  forth  with  a  dazzling 
brightness.  Every  one  laughed  and  sang.  The 
coolies  and  amahs  were  busy  clearing  up  the  debris 
of  the  night.  The  usual  routine  of  the  hospital 
was  demoralized.  The  regular  clinic  patients  stayed 
at  home,  and  by  afternoon  all  the  cut  heads  seemed 
to  be  bound  up. 

“Come,  let’s  go  for  a  walk,”  said  Edward. 

Off  we  went,  through  the  settlement,  out  along 
the  Jessfield  Road. 

We  came  to  the  house  of  the  Wistaria  Tower. 
It  is  a  great,  red-brick  house  standing  in  spacious 
grounds  with  a  thick  hedge  of  shrubbery  along  the 
outer  wall.  At  one  corner,  a  three-story,  square, 
red-brick  tower  overlooks  the  road.  Ancient  wis¬ 
taria  vines,  both  white  and  purple,  climb  to  the  top 
of  the  tower.  In  the  early  spring  the  fragrance  of 
the  blossoms  floats  out  over  the  land  in  an  enticing 
smell.  The  fullest  blossoms  grow  about  the  tower. 

“Do  you  know  the  story  of  that  house?”  I  asked 
Edward. 

“No,”  he  said.  “Has  it  got  a  story?  Never 
mind.  I  don’t  want  to  hear  any  story  but  how  you 
managed  to  get  along  without  me  for  so  long.” 


THE  RIVER  OF  SILENCE 


263 


“I  didn’t  manage,”  I  said.  “You  went  away  and 
left  me,  and  I  pined,  but  I  am  not  going  to  talk 
about  that ;  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  story  of  the 
Wistaria  Tower.  The  other  can’t  be  told  in  the 
daylight,  walking  along  the  public  road.” 

“Go  ahead,  then,”  said  Edward.’ 

“Well,”  I  began,  “once  upon  a  time,  long  ago 
when  Shanghai  was  a  strange  and  dangerous  place 
to  live  in,  a  young  couple  came  out  from  England. 
The  husband  was  in  the  tea  business.  They  pros¬ 
pered  greatly  and,  as  his  bride  was  fond  of  the 
country,  he  bought  this  house  on  Bubbling  Well 
Road.  Fifty  years  ago  it  was  out  in  the  wilds  of 
the  country.  At  first  the  husband  and  wife  were 
very  happy.  Together  they  planted  the  white 
and  purple  wistaria  and  the  daphne  bushes  and  the 
bamboo  grove.  They  had  a  little  baby,  and  I  think 
they  were  as  happy  as  people  ever  are  on  this  earth. 
Perhaps  they  were  too  happy  or  too  forgetful.  The 
husband  became  richer  and  richer.  He  grew  fas¬ 
cinated  with  piling  up  money  and  more  money. 
At  night,  when  he  came  home  from  the  hong,  he 
sat  silent  at  the  head  of  the  table,  his  head  full  of 
plans  of  how  he  could  get  more  and  more  money. 
He  didn’t  play  with  the  baby  any  more.  When, 
on  Sunday  afternoons,  he  and  his  wife  rode  out  in 
their  green  victoria,  he  sat  silent  and  preoccupied 
beside  her. 

“At  first  his  wife  was  very  sad.  By  and  by  she 
forgot  about  the  time  that  he  had  loved  her  and  that 
she  had  loved  him.  She  fancied  he  had  always 
been  this  absentminded  person  who  only  cared 


264 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


about  silver  taels.  But  she  was  happy  neverthe¬ 
less,  for  she  had  her  baby.  Then  one  summer  the 
baby  died.  For  a  week  the  husband  forgot  about 
his  money  and  was  tender  to  his  wife,  but  he  soon 
forgot  all  about  her  again.  Day  by  day,  she  used 
to  sit  in  her  room  and  pretend  the  baby  was  just 
out  for  a  walk  with  his  amah  and  would  come  bound¬ 
ing  in  to  her  in  a  few  moments.  Her  friends  and 
her  servants  whispered  among  each  other,  saying 
she  would  go  mad  from  grief.  One  of  them  spoke 
to  her  husband,  and  he  sent  for  a  doctor.  Now 
this  doctor  was  a  young  man,  just  out  from  England. 
He  felt  sorry  for  the  wife  and,  by  and  by,  he  and  the 
wife  became  good  friends.  There  was  no  wicked¬ 
ness  or  sinfulness  in  their  friendship.  It  merely 
brought  warmth  and  happiness  to  their  two  empty 
hearts. 

“One  night,  at  dinner,  the  wife  noticed  that  her 
husband  eyed  her  strangely.  After  that  he  would 
come  home  at  unexpected  moments,  or  suddenly 
appear  in  the  shrubbery  if  he  heard  the  voices  of 
his  wife  and  the  doctor  talking.  At  first  the  wife 
rejoiced,  because  she  thought  her  husband  wanted 
to  be  friends  again.  But  it  was  not  so ;  he  was 
devoured  by  a  fiendish  jealousy. 

“Little  by  little  it  killed  him.  He  left  the 
strangest  will.  His  wife  was  to  be  allowed  only 
the  income  from  his  estate  until  she  took  his  body 
home  and  buried  it  in  a  certain  cemetery  in  England. 
When  that  had  been  done,  she  was  to  be  given  the 
principal.  This  principal  was  a  huge  sum  of  thou¬ 
sands  and  thousands  of  pounds.  By  this  devise, 


THE  RIVER  OF  SILENCE 


265 


the  husband  had  thought  to  separate  her  from  the 
doctor.  If  she  married  again,  she  was  to  forfeit 
the  entire  fortune.  After  the  will  was  read,  the 
woman  and  the  doctor  met  in  the  garden  under  the 
wistaria  vines.  It  was  springtime,  and  above  them 
the  flowers  hung  in  purple  and  snowy  cascades  of 
fragrance. 

“  Don’t  leave  me,”  said  the  doctor. 

‘“I  must,’  said  the  wife.  ‘I  must  go  home  with 
my  husband’s  body,  across  the  sea,  to  bury  it  in  the 
old  graveyard.’ 

“‘Don’t  go,’  he  begged. 

“‘But  I  must,’  she  answered.  ‘If  the  body 
crumbles,  I  am  penniless,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
penniless.  I  don’t  want  to  work.’ 

“‘What  do  you  want  to  do?’”  he  asked. 

“‘I  want  to  do  just  what  we  have  been  doing  in 
these  last  two  years.  I  want  to  stay  right  here, 
where  I  used  to  be  happy,  where  my  baby  used  to 
play.  I  want  to  smell  the  wistaria  spring  after 
spring  and  have  you  come  to  see  me.’ 

“A  sudden  light  sprang  up  in  the  eyes  of  the 
doctor. 

“  ‘  You  shall  do  just  exactly  what  you  want,’  he  said. 

“So  he  sent  for  skilled  embalmers.  For  days 
and  days  they  were  shut  in  the  room  with  the  corpse. 
He  went  to  see  the  lawyers  and  asked  their  opinion. 
‘As  long  as  his  body  remains  above  ground  she  will 
have  the  use  of  the  income,’  they  said. 

“They  sent  for  a  mason,  and  the  high  tower  was 
built.  There,  in  the  topmost  room,  they  placed 
the  body  in  all  pomp  and  state.  It  lies  on  a  great 


266 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


marble  bier  draped  with  sumptuous  silks.  Strange 
spices  fill  the  atmosphere.  Once  a  week,  every 
Friday,  the  mistress  of  the  house  says  to  the  boy. 
‘Bring  your  feather  duster.  It  is  time  to  dust  off 
Master.’  Up  they  go,  by  the  winding  stairs,  to 
the  tower  room,  and  open  the  closed  doors.  They 
open  the  windows  on  to  the  sweet  smelling  air, 
heavy  with  the  fragrance  of  the  wistaria,  and  the 
Chinese  boy  dusts  off  the  light  film  of  white  dust 
that  sifts  in  through  the  windows  and  lies  on  the 
face  of  Master.  Then  the  mistress  takes  out  fresh 
spices  from  a  bag  on  her  wrist  and  sprinkles  them 
about  the  room  of  death.  1 

“All  that  was  fifty  years  ago,  and  she  is  an  old 
woman  now.  She  says  she  will  never  go  back  to 
England.  She  has  again  grown  fond  of  her  husband, 
of  the  face  that  smiles  at  her  with  its  eternal  calm 
from  its  sumptuous  bed  of  silks  and  spices.  Once 
a  week  she  performs  her  ceremonial  rite ;  she  and 
the  half-frightened  boy  climb  the  winding  stairs  to 
the  highest  room  and  dust  off  Master.  But  I 
wonder  how  often  she  secretly  climbs  up  the  stairs, 
perhaps  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  the  moon  shines 
in  pale  patches  of  silver,  or  at  sunset,  when  the  rosy 
reflection  of  the  sky  tinges  the  white  face  of  her 
husband  with  the  glow  of  life,  or  at  the  clear  cool 
time  of  dawning,  when  the  crows  fly  back  to  the 
fields  for  the  day.  I  can  fancy  her  standing  beside 
that  royal  bier,  thinking  thoughts  that  are  sad  and 
corroding,  or  quiet  and  serene.  Whenever  I  pass  the 
house,  I  wonder  about  her.  Has  her  life  been  only 
one  long  contemplation  of  the  dead?” 


THE  RIVER  OF  SILENCE 


267 


“What  a  dreadful  story,”  said  Edward.  “I’ll 
never  be  able  to  pass  that  house  without  thinking 
of  her.  Don’t  tell  me  any  more  such  spooky  tales.” 

The  sun  covered  the  fields  like  a  golden  carpet. 
The  sky  was  a  fleckless  blue.  In  the  tiny  village 
of  Zau  Ka  Doo  women  and  babies  were  already 
sitting  along  the  roadside,  chatting.  The  shops 
were  busy.  Long  strings  of  peppers  and  leeks  hung 
from  the  ceilings.  The  destruction  of  the  night 
before  was  almost  cleared  away.  The  shore  of 
the  creek  was  strewn  with  floating  masts  and  up¬ 
turned  boats,  but  the  children  were  fast  gathering 
the  wreckage  for  firewood.  At  J essfield  we  wandered 
across  the  campus.  The  gardeners  were  busy  at 
work  with  ropes  and  pulleys,  hoisting  the  upturned 
trees  back  into  place.  The  force  of  the  wind  had 
evidently  not  struck  Jessfield  with  the  violence 
with  which  it  had  hit  the  settlement. 

Along  the  shore  of  the  creek  a  group  of  children 
were  throwing  stones  at  a  log  in  the  water.  They 
were  all  little  American  children,  the  girls  in  the 
dainty  frills  and  lacy  whiteness  of  clean  afternoon 
dresses,  the  boys  in  stiff  sailor  suits. 

“I’ve  hit  it  twice,”  shouted  Henry. 

“I  hit  it  too,”  said  Mary.  “I  can  hit  just  as 
well  as  you.” 

“Shucks!  You  just  happened  to  hit  it!  Girls 
can’t  throw.  Watch  me  hit  it  again.” 

Henry  carefully  searched  for  a  smooth  round 
stone,  poised  himself  on  one  foot,  and  sent  the  little, 
twirling  thing  through  the  air.  Plump,  it  landed 
on  the  log  with  a  forceful  impact.  The  sudden 


268 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


thud  made  the  inert  brown  log  roll  over.  A  sicken¬ 
ing  horror  gripped  us.  Something  white  and  life¬ 
like  stared  up  at  us  from  the  water.  A  swirl  of  the 
current  caught  the  object.  It  flung  an  arm  out  on 
the  water,  and  quite  distinctly  I  saw  a  hand  appear 
and  vanish  before  the  current  rolled  it  back  again. 
Once  more  it  lay  floating  like  a  log,  drifting  up  a 
little  way  and  down  a  little  way  with  the  lazy  current. 
I  looked  at  Edward  and  saw  the  same  knowledge 
in  his  eyes.  I  sent  the  children  off  home,  for  I  did 
not  want  them  to  see  the  ghastly,  drowned  face  turn 
again  to  the  light.  We  walked  along  the  shore  to 
the  ancient  ferry  above  and  got  the  ferryman  to 
pole  us  downstream  to  the  drowned  man.  Very 
slowly  he  was  drifting  down  towards  the  ocean. 
The  ferryman  was  scared  and  refused  to  touch  the 
body.  When  we  found  ourselves  alongside  it,  it 
was  floating  on  its  face,  with  arms  and  legs  sinking 
downwards,  leaving  its  khaki-clad  body  like  a  log 
on  the  surface.  We  drew  it  to  the  shore. 

“A  rebel  soldier!”  cried  the  ferryman  in  fear. 
“Do  not  touch  him.  Put  him  back  again  into  the 
water.  It  is  not  good  to  touch  the  drowned  dead.” 

“We’ll  bury  the  corpse,”  said  Edward.  “We 
can’t  let  him  go  floating  up  and  down  the  stream, 
to  frighten  the  children  out  of  their  wits.” 

The  dead  rebel  soldier  lay  on  the  grass  with  his 
white,  shrunken  face  upturned  to  the  sunset  skies. 
Overhead  the  crows  flew  by,  one  by  one,  in  twos  and 
threes,  back  to  their  roosts  in  the  shelter  of  the  settle¬ 
ment  for  the  night.  The  wide,  level  plains  stretched 
off  in  the  distance  to  the  faint  irregular  rim  of  the 


THE  RIVER  OF  SILENCE 


269 


horizon.  Grave  mounds,  little  and  big,  forgotten 
and  nameless,  humped  the  fields.  The  meandering 
runs  of  water  and  the  meandering  footpaths  went 
off  towards  infinity.  From  the  road  came  the  sound 
of  the  carry  coolies.  I  could  see  them  jogging  along 
at  their  never-ending,  tireless  gait,  singing  again 
and  forever  the  same  song.  A  boatman  went  by, 
swaying  slowly  at  his  oar,  calling  out  a  low  note  at 
each  stroke.  He  looked  at  us  with  curious  eyes. 
Through  the  fields  I  saw  a  wheelbarrow,  laden  with 
a  dozen  women,  go  along  one  of  the  winding  paths. 

“I  wonder  where  he  came  from,”  I  said. 

The  ferryman  had  left  us  to  ply  his  busy  evening 
trade  to  and  fro  across  the  stream,  carrying  the 
workers  back  from  the  twentieth  century  into  the 
days  of  yore,  back  from  the  silk  filature  to  the 
rice  fields  and  their  earthen-floored  huts  of  woven 
bamboo. 

Edward  stooped  over  the  man,  and  ran  his  hand 
over  his  chest.  ‘‘Ah!  he  was  murdered,”  he  said. 
‘‘See,  here  is  a  great  gash  just  over  his  heart.  He 
was  murdered  and  then  thrown  into  the  stream. 
Think  how  simple  it  would  be,  in  one  of  those  canal 
houses  of  Soochow.” 

“But  why?”  I  asked. 

“Why?  Who  can  say?”  said  Edward.  His 
hands  were  searching  the  body  and  the  clothes. 
Suddenly  he  brought  out  a  shining  something  and 
held  it  out  to  the  light  on  the  open  palm  of  his  hand. 
The  setting  sun  caught  the  object  and  made  it 
gleam  like  an  emerald.  I  bent  over  it. 

“Take  it,”  said  Edward. 


270 


MY  CHINESE  DAYS 


I  picked  it  up  and  held  it  in  my  hand.  It  was  a 
wonderful  jade  ring.  The  stone  was  oval,  of  a  deep 
spinach  color  and  translucent.  A  light  of  its  own 
burned  within.  The  characters  “Long  Life  and 
Happiness”  were  carved  on  each  side  of  the  stone. 
Like  the  imprisoned  wonder  and  magic  and  hope 
of  the  greenness  of  spring,  it  lay  in  my  hand  and 
gathered  to  itself  all  the  lingering  light  in  the  sky. 

“He  was  an  up-country  man,”  said  Edward. 
“Probably  from  Nanking.  Can’t  you  just  see  him 
looting,  cutting  off  the  women’s  earrings,  and 
grabbing  their  bracelets  and  rings?  In  the  three 
days’  loot  of  Nanking,  he  revelled.  All  the  hard  and 
fast  restraints  of  civilized  life  were  cast  to  the  winds. 
He  could  enter  where  he  chose ;  he  could  take  what 
he  chose ;  he  could  do  what  he  chose.  Here  is  an¬ 
other  gash  on  his  forehead,  under  his  shock  of  hair. 
He  fought  like  a  demon,  and  laughed  when  the  women 
jumped  down  the  wells  at  his  approach.  He  stuffed 
his  pockets  full  of  loot  and  drank  and  was  riotously 
happy.  Then  the  tide  turned;  the' rebels  were 
ousted.  Fearful  of  losing  his  loot,  or  of  being  caught 
with  it  on  his  body,  he  slunk  away  from  the  army 
and  set  out  for  home.  Somehow  he  reached  Soochow. 
There  he  entered  a  wine  shop.  The  wine  was  hot 
and  strong.  The  men  around  him  ate  and  joked. 
He  began  his  fatal  boasting.  He  pulled  earrings 
and  bracelets  from  his  belt  pocket  and  spread  them 
before  the  greedy  eyes  of  the  coolies.  Soon  they 
were  fighting,  swaying  around  and  around  the  eating 
tables  in  a  hilarious  drunken  mob.  The  rebel 
soldier  was  pinned  against  the  wall.  Behind  him, 


THE  RIVER  OF  SILENCE 


271 


a  window  yawned  over  the  canal.  A  long,  gleam¬ 
ing  dagger  reached  out  and  lunged  itself  into  his 
heart.  The  sudden  warm  gush  of  blood  staggered 
his  enemies.  They  drew  back  with  terror  staring 
in  their  eyes.  In  a  panic  they  ebbed  away  from  their 
victim.  Steadied  by  the  wall  behind  him,  undis¬ 
torted  with  pain,  and  strangely  aloof,  as  are  those  that 
die  from  hemorrhage,  the  rebel  stared  at  the  crouch¬ 
ing,  cowed  mob.  I  can  fancy  him  making  one  last 
defiant  gesture,  waving  the  marvelous  ring  in  their 
faces,  before  plunging  backward  into  the  slow, 
silent,  sluggish  creek.  The  men,  too  frightened  to 
follow  him,  slunk  away  one  by  one  to  their  homes. 
Through  the  winding  black  canals,  in  the  cold  black 
night,  the  body  floated  till  morning  saw  it  out  in 
the  open  fields.  Unconcerned,  it  floated  down¬ 
stream,  drifting  with  the  eddying  current,  past  the 
lighted  house  boats,  past  the  brown-sailed  junks, 
past  the  staring,  stone  Buddhas,  past  the  low  stone 
steps  where  the  women  washed  their  morning  rice, 
floating  like  a  log,  as  dead  men  float  out  to  sea. 
Only  the  children,  shying  their  smooth,  round  stones, 
stopped  its  seaward  destiny.  Through  such  wild 
bloody  scenes,  from  such  a  high-born  home  the 
magic  ring  has  come  to  you.” 

Edward  stood  up  and  put  the  ring  on  my  fourth 
finger.  I  slipped  my  hand  within  my  waist  and  drew 
out  the  pendant  of  jade  that  the  Mandarin’s  Bride 
had  given  me,  and  I  remembered  the  words:  “  There 
is  no  adventure  without  love.  Love  is  the  great 
Adventure.” 


